The ravens almost never come this far out on the water, but this morning two, then three of them, didn’t want to leave my ‘hood.
One perched on my mast; I shook it off with a nasty remark (their poop stains), and it flew around and around and around, too restless to settle elsewhere, too fixated to leave my bit of the sky.
(My unrepaired jib and the neighbor’s “corporate America” flags point to the rook’s erstwhile perch)
The restless raven rasped brusquely, then all three absconded at once.
As mythological moments go, that was a showstopper.
If I were writing a story, that would only happen right before all Hell broke loose. The thing is, Hell has a habit of breaking loose around here — in my life, in Oakland, on Earth generally these days. Why ravens now?
I’ll keep an eye on the sky (I always do, for the weather) and my nose to the grindstone. I’ll keep my hand on the plow and not sheathe the sword. And, of course, both feet planted firmly on the ground while grabbing the tiller.
What’s left of me will post updates.