Driving out of the camping ground this morning, there was the huddled, ruffled form of a raven in the middle of the roadway. I stopped, got out and squatted next to her. Her head was buried under a wing and a fly had landed on her just at the base of her beak. I brushed it away. I picked her up, her head came out and she tried lamely to struggle. I placed her on the grass, under a tree away from the road. She immediately placed her head under her wing again: there seemed to be some injury, some wound there. I squatted next to her for some minutes. She did not move. I straightened up, took a step back and quietly wished her a good death. She was old, she had lived long in these skies of Manannan. It is time for you to go to the place of rest, dear friend.
Raven: Joker-Creator, bringer of news, sacred, revered by Celt, Norse and Native American alike.
And now, sitting here, a hoodie-crow is looking at me: pigeon-style head-bobbing walk, feet deliberately placed. I am so alone here, on this island surrounded by a sea of tears – the tears of the old people, poured into it over centuries of disappointment.
