It was once upon midnight, while snug in my nook,
that I pondered old poems, and sat with a book
by the light of a fire, all warm in my keep.
But then, just as I started to lull off to sleep,
a soft tapping arose at my entryway hall.
"'Tis some visitor knocking," I said, "that is all."
I recall it distinctly, it was in December.
While watching the pageant of each glowing ember,
I sought from encouraging stories to borrow
some cheer that could carry me on to tomorrow,
and thought of the good times I'd had long before
with the rare and the radiant maiden Lenore.
So, preferring to not dwell alone with my feelings,
I soon found the thought of a visitor thrilling.
I tried to respond to the one who was rapping,
"Forgive me," I called out, "for I was just napping".
"I heard you", I said - here I swung my door wide.
Though the cold wandered in, there was no one outside.
With the snow falling softly, the full moon was gleaming,
a scene so serene, I mistook it for dreaming.
No footprints or signs of a guest there were blatant,
betokening then, that my porch had been vacant.
I heard now just whispers of sound in the air,
so then closing the door, I returned to my chair.
Soon the tapping came back, louder than t'was before,
"Could it just be the wind", I said, "knocks at my door?"
But the tapping emitted from my window lattice,
so to it, I went to inspect what thereat is.
And when I had scarcely thrown open the shutter,
A blackbird burst into the room with a flutter!
An elegant blackbird, no deference made he,
just glided with poise that befit lord or lady,
and looked unimpressed by my avant decor,
acting all nonchalant, like it'd done this before.
Then it perched up on top of a tall cluttered shelf;
it just perched there, and sat, as though proud of itself.
Though I balked at my unforeseen guest, even so,
I began to grow fond of this wandering crow.
Its bright countenance turned all my musings to smiling,
and rarely had I found a bird so beguiling.
I wondered aloud, "aren't you far from your flock?"
And the bird replied "Greetings, my name is Rorschach".
I was awed by this bird that had spoken so plain,
and the sound that it made I can't fully explain.
It was truly far-fetched, we can only agree,
how that anyone could have such fortune to see
such a charming and singular bird that could talk,
with a quirky, unusual name like "Rorschach".
So I asked my blithe guest, "Did you just give your name?"
but it sat there in silence, composed and quite tame.
Then I mused, "Is this phrase just a habit you’ve learned,
or a greeting that somewhere, long past, you discerned,
or a trace of some owner, a friend you once sought?"
When it said again, "Greetings, my name is Rorschach."
Quite bemused by my guest, who had brought me to smiling,
I pulled up my chair for the task of compiling
my guesses and thoughts, while I lounged in repose,
on how one might begin to converse with the crows,
and the way that this bird learned to mimic and mock
such a strange phrase as "Greetings, my name is Rorschach".
All enthralled, there I sat, testing guesses, and linking
from fancy to fancy; and pondering, thinking,
comparing and weighing the hints I could glean
from this talkative bird - that had started to preen,
as it perched on my shelf, chiming in like a clock,
with the same refrain: "Greetings my name is Rorschach"
I began to think fancy had slipped to delusion,
if I might be dreaming this lively intrusion.
A figment, perhaps, or a trick of the mind,
was I really now hosting a guest of bird-kind?
Indeed, truly now I was beginning to gawk,
at this bird who insisted its name was Rorschach.
At this point, now aloud I was starting to wonder,
"perhaps I am making a terrible blunder
by thinking too much about what this could mean,
when, instead, I should savor this curious scene!"
To my words, its response was not cawing nor squawk,
but now jauntily, "Greetings, my name is Rorschach!"
I considered this bird who sat preening a feather,
who’d likely flown in to escape the cold weather
and rest for a while from its long, weary flight;
how my strange little guest made this quite the odd night!
So I toasted, "To you, and fortuitous meetings!"
It answered me with, "Rorschach is my name. Greetings!"
I asked my spright friend if it’d join me to seek
for a lighthearted yarn, and it nodded its beak,
with a gesture as earnest I'd seen from a rook.
Then with relish, I started to read from my book,
epic stories of daring and brave folk of yore,
and of magic and legends and mythical lore.
And so all through the night I told stories of cheer
for the bird who came by at the end of the year.
And I was so engrossed that it was a surprise
when I noticed the sun was beginning to rise!
But wouldn't you know, I was happy to stay,
sharing tales - with a bird - all that bright winter's day.
Now perhaps you have already heard in some fable,
the tale of a visiting corvid of sable?
For ravens are all of such similar features;
but whether or not they could be the same creatures,
they're not un-alike, when all's said and all's done,
tell me, who in this tale is the different one?
Though the snow may be falling, the fire still smolders,
and there, in the eye of the raven beholder
is something that stays ever hidden from sight,
that makes some see mere shadows where others see light.
For in even the darkest of times on the earth,
if you look, you will find: there is friendship and mirth.
