Sunday, January 19, 2014

raven








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.

6 comments:

  1. Ah, our Raven.
    The shapeshifter with eloquence.
    My main bird when I'm at Red Feather. Alone, sitting on a rock, they always come.
    Protect me, black winged friends.
    Caw!

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    1. I heard a raven calling while I was still in bed this morning. I believe it wants me to come out to the mesa and play!

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  2. Hauntingly beautiful Julie. One of your best posts yet l think :)
    Love the shot of the feathers in the sunshine, and the respect shown for the dead bird. xx

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    1. Thanks, Chrisy. I admit I experienced a little sadness when I found the remains of the raven. That's the circle of life though, especially out there in the wild. xx

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  3. Wow, so simple, but so amazing. You've captured me here.

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    1. Thanks, Ashley. It was quality time spent with the spirit of the raven. It captured me too.

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