I prefer the past. I write about the past, think about the past, which explains why I don't keep a journal about the present tense.
The thoughts are too new and unworn. This writing has a strange twist, I write today, and push yesterday's writing into the past, where it will be forgotten and called outdated before it has been savored. I like yesterday, last year, and all things long ago. The blog prefers the present. It sorts by not the best, but by the newest. I am old-fashioned.
So, from where does the raven call?
Most likely, from the past. From a gnarled spruce, ancient, but stunted by boggy soils. Along the windswept coast, changing, eroding, growing, shifting. From Quoddy Head. From the Appalachians, above the mother deciduous forest, where raven tucks her wings and rolls, tucks her wings and rolls, tucks her wings.
We watch her. She plays while her raven companions fly all around her. She keeps time with their flight, though her flight is full of extra steps. I wonder if she does this for our enjoyment as much as her own.
Certainly, she pulled my mind from dark thoughts about the rumbling motorcycles with blaring music and shouting riders who parked next to us. "We are 5,000 feet up, surrounded by the eastern deciduous forest in spring glory, and these annoying people..."
Raven tucks her wings and rolls, tucks her wings and rolls, tucks her wings. I am quieted. My mouth opens, but no sounds, I follow her with my eyes.
From where does the raven call?
I listened one afternoon and heard her bell-like call. This time, not in Maine nor in the mountains of North Carolina, but in the Sourlands. I saw her! Then the next day and the next. On black wings she flew over our house. Where to and where from?
Photos: Quoddy Head, Maine, 2007