“Honestly, all crows are not ravens”
― Munia Khan

Ravens fly mid thought across the white backdrops of Sangre de Cristo peaks, descending in hushed lines of wind brought together through patterns and will- stingy in the knowledge of flight. I watch sad and mad in my jealous indignation at such a feat. Perhaps it is the plight of the human to have to deal with heartbreak, bills and 9-5 because we forgot how to fly ourselves.

The air was heavy with the scent of possibilities, mist mingled in fire smoke and ravens wings.

Did you know that the black we see in the raven is not black at all but a spectrum of rainbow light so distinct and grand that only the chosen may glimpse.

I have always wanted to be chosen by the raven- to be seen, to fit in. to be a part of something only registered as a secret- to be a key holder to esoteric knowledge and the divinity of unseen light.

The mountains sang in up drafts and bitter wind, songs of a corvid knowing echoing beneath basalt and longing.

I looked up by chance, to see an Eagles dance- and a song of Fuck You to the Raven brood. I assume it is because they shine like the sun, and Eagles are jealous too.

Black against the snow, rainbows against the sky.