I spotted a dead raven alongside the road. The raven’s body was folded, wings included, into a neat black bundle with exception of the legs, which protruded stiffly and conspicuously from the black bundle. Even in death, the raven’s feathers remained shiny and iridescent.
I have no use for a dead raven. And, really, I
don’t have any particular use for a live one. But I continued to think about
the bird long after the sight of it smeared into the landscape falling way in
my rearview mirror. The death of anything and everything has a specific
gravitational pull that tugs at you, clings to you as you pass by.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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