“I am a fugitive and a vagabond, a sojourner seeking signs.”
― Annie Dillard,
I saw him in the spring. His feathers were iridescent in the light above the trees. He sailed slow and smooth with liquid air cupped in his wings. The nervous twitter of the feather tips kept him sailing on to something he saw across the brook to the ridge. What a magnificent raven he was; big, shiny, and content.
Summer came and he called to me, circled overhead and moved on. A friendly hello. Nothing more. Fall arrived and the brook was covered in leaves of yellow, red, and orange like sunsets warning us the darkness was coming.
This winter, I crossed the brook again and listened silently for my friend. I heard a strange sound and looked as the raven fell like a leaf to the ground. He shook. His wings spasmed and he was no more. I crossed the brook and knew it was my last season there.
Image by the author.