Is there- is there balm in Gilead? (Poe’s “The Raven”)

So after the early snow (in October,) the disappearance of all things summer and fall— the absence of geese from the sky and frog-croaking from the pond, some things, unlike leaves, have not changed.  They don’t hibernate or fly south for the winter like Monarch butterflies.  No. They stay.

I’m not referring to stink bugs.  We’ve never had more than a few. I slap them to the floor, step on them— and though I don’t get real close, I have sniffed.  They don’t stink.  Not really.  Friends say last year stink bugs were in boxes of Christmas decorations, behind hanging pictures on walls.  Even so, they weren’t relentlessly crashing into windows, tormenting, harassing, making a mockery of serene life in the countryside.

He never left.  The mockingbird never left.  His beating feathers still streak white thin lines on windows, and his bill widens holes he poked in screens weeks ago.

This morning I raced outside in my nightgown and screamed at him again. He flew around to the front upstairs bedroom window.  I heard him a short time later.

Classical literature is so great. Consider Edgar Allen Poe.  I don’t rhyme like he did (wouldn’t if I could), but I can relate to (and isn’t that the whole point of a classic— our being able to relate?) how he tried to rid himself of the tormenting raven? I too feel such anguish.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

Atticus Finch, turn your head.
Tomorrow a mockingbird will be dead.
I side with EA Poe instead.