The Raven

29fff5c1805ece08369dc854c2640e1f.jpgI have a visitor in the mornings where I live. He sits outside my window and croaks for me to begin my day. Sometimes I think I can hear him talking. His is a story I’ll hear but may never fully understand. Although I like to imagine I do. The sun glints off his feathers and I look into his eyes. I’m confident his story holds no lies.

One morning I seemed to miss him. But he found me through the shower window instead to continue his tale of adventure. I like to fantasize he’s telling me of the things he and his partner do. The places they go, the things they saw. She doesn’t come around as often, keeping her distance. But I see her. I feel her watching us.

I went to the beach a little over a mile from my house. I missed his story that morning too and he found me anyway. He spoke of dreams and visions and dancing into the night. He spoke of change and love and long summer nights. I don’t know his name. I don’t know if he’ll even stay. But the raven is my friend, my confidant, and here for at least today.


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