The wug settled
on my soul with the density 
of a bowling ball,
a shadow, swallowed.

Does it belong to me, alone?
Or is it some collective grief
perching like a gang of ravens in one hapless tree?
Black mystery, gliding between the material and spiritual,
scolding me in Morse code.
The ravens tell me again, as if saying it louder, slower,
might allow me to discern.

“Walk off the wug,” has been my mantra.
Because I feared the flock,
I walked, 
arms flapping,
fleeing and shooing it away.  

“Walk with the wug,” might be more fitting.  
Holding hands, 
like old married people, listening.

Or better yet,
what if, instead, I stop, 
still as a tree–
and offer my branches as rest
for this thing, a silent accompanying.