The black wings shimmer as they pull up stream.  The stream’s course in a channel of deep bunch grass and green willow shadows and lights, a thousand shades, an infinite shade of verdant and dark weaves.  The bird is untouched by the flora.  The raven winds a course between them all.  It does not cry; it does not lie.  It flies at the will of its own.


About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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