The Raven Calls

Raven is calling outside my window and in the bleak grey of the day, I am encompassed by a shifting sense of place. I can almost hear the coastal waters and feel the presence of cedar secrets. A messenger of memory this raven becomes, pulling through the mist of my mind vision of long afternoons with my grandmother, of tumbling down unknown highways on ancient tours into hemlock vales saturated in clouds. Always beneath is a longing, like trying to remember a song that plays just beyond. Trying to hold onto a mystery that flows away, water through my yearning fingers. 

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