Avery Caterwaul painted commercial signs for a living. He could whip out anything from a frontispiece for a small business to a barn side. The "Eat at Joe's" style of sign was his favorite—plain black on white with no adornment. Or "plein" black and white he would chuckle, since most of his painting was done outdoors.

One day, while in a particularly dark mood, he worked on a large billboard out by the state highway. He was roughing out the letters to "Jesus Saves", black on yellow background with a cross angled across one side. It was the angle that was giving him trouble but he doggedly worked it out in the hot August sun, sweat burning his eyes.

Once satisfied with his outline he decided to take a break for lunch before mixing his paint and filling in the great letters.

Underneath the billboard was a shady, comfortable spot where he could lean against the pilings and rest. He pulled a sandwich out of a wrinkled brown bag, gazing into the cornfield stretching out behind. A few words came to him, a precious line or two of original verse. He searched for paper, deciding to use his lunch bag, but couldn't find a pencil, not even a stub. He finally gave up with a sigh as his idea disappeared like a big fat goshawk.

For most of his creative life poet Avery Caterwaul had worked for the word alone. The beauty of poetry was enough to sustain him through years of poverty, indifference, neglect, and outright hostility. But as he grew older his spirit began to flag. He quit telling his friends about his occasional publishings when it became obvious that they never read them. One day he realized that he was avoiding, instead of embracing, writing. He steadily lost confidence.

Not being a weak sort, or overly given to self-pity, Caterwaul nonetheless looked out over the cornfield that wavered in the sun like van Gogh's last painting, crows overhead, calling, mocking in raucous voices.

It was then that he noticed one large black bird descending, settling next to him on the billboard's brace.

The bird looked him over for a moment, as if deciding something, and then said, "Are you going to finish that sandwich or not?"

Caterwaul realized that he had only taken a bite or two and gave half of what was left to the bird. "So, you the devil, or what?" He finally asked.

The raven said nothing as it munched on the sandwich, holding it in one horny claw like a sweetgum pie.

"You can't be serious," it finally answered. "I'm just a lowly scavenger going about his business on the food chain. You looked like you weren't going to eat your sandwich. Why wait? I'd have just had to pick the ants out of it."

"I've never seen a talking bird before."

"Well you ain't seen much then, have you, fella? And, by the way, I'm not a `bird,' I'm a raven!"

"Sorry. No offense."

"None taken, Joe."

"My name's Avery, Avery Caterwaul. I'm a poet…and a sign painter."

In reply the raven offered him a small rectangular piece of cardboard held in one wicked looking claw. "My card," it said.

Caterwaul read:

"For the rest of that sandwich and the piece of spice cake you've got hidden in your sack. I'll give you a little advice. Something I learned from a squirrely little runt in Baltimore, Maryland."

"All right." Caterwaul handed over the food.

"It's like this," began the raven, Nevermore. "Respect yourself, respect others, dress well, focus on one thing at a time, and always get it in writing."

You can't beat a cat at the waiting game.

—Farmer Ooka Brown

The encounter changed Caterwaul's life. He never painted another sign. Two years later his book of poems, Dew on the Whippoorwill, Frost on the Turnip Green sold three copies and was greatly loved by all who read it.