Two ravens. Sisters, or mother and daughter?
Both smoking. Both were looking at me,
eyeing me up and down as if I was a shiny
thing that they might like to swoop upon:
carry me off to their nest.
One had a cawing, croaking
voice tainted with the smoking
blackness of her beak.
But the other, older sister or mother speaks
with the stolen tongue of a scarecrow.