“Kraawk!” it said.

I blinked a couple of times, and several times more. The raven was really there, in my writing desk.

Stricken with writer’s block, it had been some time since I last put pen to paper. I hoped that the lateness of the hour might dispel the curse. The rolltop desk, where I always write, is among the finest pieces of furniture I own. My maternal grandparents left it to me, and they had it from my grandfather’s parents, I think. It’s a handsome piece, well made, with many drawers and niches.

It also had a raven, but that was relatively new and hardly a standard accoutrement for such a fine desk. We considered each other briefly.

“Shoo,” I said.

“Kraaawwwk!” it repeated.

I opened the window, hoping that the raven might leave of its own accord. To my pleasure, it cooperated beautifully. I watched as it departed. It lit on an upper window sill of the house opposite, Mr. Poe’s house, and began tapping on the shutters.

I closed the window, returned to the desk, and waited for inspiration.