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Writer's pictureDavid Richard Boyd

I’ve Heard the Ravens Singing


Heard a strange noise this morning. Sounded like a roadrunner. That soothing, strange, gurgling sound they make, like a cat purring, with a Jurassic twist. Which makes it puzzling to the ear. Searched out the source, pulling Darwin dog in tow, who was using his leash for resistance training, as usual. Turned the corner, followed the peculiar noise, until I looked up and spotted a giant Raven.


I’ve never heard a Raven sing before. As I watched and listened, it changed its tune, calling out melodiously, almost like the cooing of a turtle dove on steroids. How odd that this harbinger of death and gloom could sing so lightly, infusing the morning sunlight with a promise that left me scratching my head a little.


Walked away thinking about how in Native American culture, raven is a hero, singed black for trying to steal fire from the sun. It was Spider Woman who succeeded, spinning her own bridge and anchoring it to the nearest star, carrying light for us all,

down to earth in her small clay jar.


Maybe the Raven was singing to the sun. Thanking it for making him black and ominous to man. Protecting him with a coat of apocalyptic camouflage, reminding those with ears to hear to seize the day.

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