The ravens are up to something. Forming a parliament or a murder, they croak overhead accompanied by wing-swept rushes that remind me of the first time their noises were startling. Dry wind like a comically loud whisper, sometimes a rustling high whistle, whooshes beneath raven bodies pushing through sky like phantoms. Thick, percussive birdsong from the juniper brush: a brilliant but simple, unseen xylophone. Gargled notes rhythmless; sweet melodious chuckles. Cluck, chortle, squawk, caw. The ravens are up to something.

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