By Maryanna Gabriel
The raven before me was huge. Garbage was strewn everywhere. He had poked gaping holes into the bag. He regarded me calmly.
"Caw," I said in guttural tones. My exasperation apparently carried conviction. He lifted into the air and landed a foot away from his previous stance. Good. My attempt at inter-species communication had impact. His stare was bold. Glinting.
Rural collection has been erratic, and I am still trying to understand how it works. I would have to invest in a protective bin. Clearly.
Ravens are supposed to be mystical creatures. That's the theory, anyway. Once, in Byron Bay, Australia, I had a tarot reading and a raven had tapped on the window as the reader interpreted the cards. She was so absorbed in what she was saying she barely noticed. For me, however, it gave credence about a family member. The reading was life changing. The tapping seemed to give emphasis from somewhere beyond. Or someone.
However, there was nothing mystical about this saucy fellow. But now it would seem I can keep my caws to myself for the day is saved. I found what I needed on sale. Even more importantly, unlike the mountains where I lived last spring, there are no bears. An unmystical raven after garbage is much more managable. All is well, after all.