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Along a winding country road
one autumn’s day of late,
I chanced upon an aged abode,
up a hill beyond a gate.

The house was old and quiet,
not a person 'neath its roof
but in a tree close by it
perched a bird, somewhat aloof.

It cawed and cawed audaciously
then quickly flew its roost
to stare at me vexatiously
as some intruder, I deduced.

This large black rook, of imposing size,
soon alit upon the fence 
and shackled me with ominous eyes
from which I made no sense .

I stared at it quixotically
with doubt, and grave concern.
Was it something meant symbolically
and from it what I might learn?

"Tell me kindly," said it, "if you would,
why you've stopped by here today?
Is it to see what's empty stood
long before you found your way?“

Perplexed I asked that brazen bird,
"How is it can you speak?
In all God’s truth I’ve never heard
words coming from some beak.”

"I saw this house as I approached
evoking thoughts of times long past
I do apologize have I encroached,
but its aspect drew me fast."

The creature stopped momentarily 
then turned to answer me.
"Some things aren't necessarily
as they oft appear to be.“

“Passersby may think it empty
but it's really not that way,
and though many try to tempt me
I seldom let them stay."

The impetuous crow, still on the post,
said with a haughty smile,
“Perhaps I'll be a proper host,
and let you stay a while?"

“But expect strange sounds at twilight,
with voices echoing down the halls
and later on you just might
hear woeful music through the walls."

"And perhaps from an upstairs bedroom
you’ll see a candle’s flickering beam
that makes disjointed shadows loom
like gloomy specters in a dream."

“And from the wooden balcony 
that tilts from the second floor,
with much unscrupled agony
might be screams you can’t ignore.”

Then with abysmal imprecations
it ranted on in wild discourse.
With dismal implications
it spoke to me without remorse.

Disturbed was I with deep misgiving
that gripped intensely for a minute
as this was no site for me the living,
I left the place and all within it.

I stopped, then turned as if to reckon
what might that evil bird implore
and would it’s piercing eyes still beckon
but it had flown back to the door.

I watched it flock with several more
then transform into a being
which stood upright, danced through the door,
to create a mystery quite deceiving.

Now was I more than less bemused
to reason why its bold attack
had left my psyche so contused
that never once should I come back.

With chilling thoughts so undisguised
of my soul it might have robbed
I thank the Lord I recognized 
the devil’s wicked danse macabre.



                                      John Henry Gardner

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