The women walked in solemnly,
dressed in black.
Being a singer myself, I knew they must
have been anxious, or
at least I assumed so;
and yet if they were they hid it
so gracefully.
Before I could perceive that they had
assembled, the music filled the romantic
chapel with tones of high and
low, the richness of experience-
I knew it when I heard it.
These were women’s voices.

There was no hesitance, only gentleness.
There was no insistence;
no need, we all agreed.
Whatever I felt, whatever I thought-
it seemed to me as though it were all
projected into the shared sentiment
of the room.
As the women sang, they became a
raven.  All dressed in blank,
serious and composed,
so close and intimate that, despite the
obvious public nature of such a ceremony,

I felt a bit embarrassed, as though
I was listening in on a private conversation.
And, curious, I continued to spy.
Together like this,
so closely, so intimately, almost
elusively, they truly did resemble this
most mysterious of all birds.
They were ravens- but they sang like
nightingales.