Perched Upon Power by John Christensen

Oh Raven, bird of wisdom, offeror of truth and guidance, omen of darkness, omen of light, atop
the pole, do you recognize our kind? An aged cedar pole, once a tree, was cut down, reshaped,
and re-erected. Re-erected to hold the Raven. Raised up to do the bidding. Raised up like the
people. The pole holds the lines, the lines hold the power, the power is not held by the people.
The power can be taken away. The power can be turned off. If the people are too cold to yell,
no one will hear. Croaks and caws and the beating of great black wings. It cannot be filmed or
posted to a wall. The writing is already here. But the scrolls are ablaze, thrown upon an
enormous fire. Some dance around in merriment, ripping off their garments and tossing them
into the flames. The others fall to their knees, upon small stones. The stones grind into their
skin as they rest upon them, yet they do not move. They do not move. They cup their hands and
hold them beneath their own eyes in an attempt to catch the tears falling forth. The salt in their
tears, tasted by cracked lips, will be their last memory. With enough of them, the fire could be
put out. Braids of steel and aluminum extend into the morning sun. Not the people, nor the
raven, can gaze upon them, for emptiness exists in those beady black eyes, yet even they are
blinded by the piercing light. In their homes, people wake from sleep. They leave behind their
dreams, and other places of peace. The aroma of freshly changed sheets, as they lay down to lie
in the dirt, with no one around. Here in the land, where Ravens do fly, never surrender, even if
you die. Yet here they come; they always come back, even now, under attack. They come back
here to fear and to wonder and die; Raven is always perplexed by the look in their eyes. This
great bird, perched upon a pole, laughs at the thought. The notion that the power, coming in
pulsing vibrations beneath clawed feet, traveling the cold steel lines, the lines the people don’t
own, held by a pole they don’t own, funneled into houses they don’t own, to power machines
they don’t own, will ever allow them to fly free. Yet the people don’t unplug, so the power
continues to surge through the cold steel lines, upon which Raven observes our descent into
darkness.