High on the mesa, in the stillness of a desert morning, I find feathers. Ragged feathers, torn from the wings. Bones, chewed and broken.
Small, delicate, and sacred, the vertebrae of a raven reveals itself to me. I turn and find the breastbone. Together, they make the cage that held the heart.
The soul of the raven, gone. Flying high, circling, watching. Free.