Two ravens danced upon a wire,
Between the earth and ancient fire.
One drew near, one turned away,
Then both returned, as lovers may.
Baba Yaga watched below,
Remembering things the woods still know.
Of whispered wings and tangled trees,
Of fleeting warmth upon the breeze.
She knew the language of retreat,
Of restless hearts that sometimes meet.
Of paths that cross, then disappear,
Of distant things that wander near.
The ravens kissed, then took to flight,
Two shadows folding into light.
And somewhere deep within her bones,
An ancient, quiet knowing rose.
Not every spell is meant to bind,
Nor every mystery defined.
Some magic comes without a name,
And leaves us quietly changed.
She smiled beneath the fading sky,
And watched the dark wings drifting by.
For even witches, old and wise,
Still find enchantment in surprise.
And somewhere where the redwoods grow,
The ravens keep what only they know. �
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