quoth the raven
Lisa and I walked the hills above the wetlands. The wind was blowing in our faces. The sun felt good. The ice is turning blue. Willow ruled the high clay banks above the river.
A trio of Ravens, fewer than an unkindness, glided on warm wind. They are remarkable, going minutes without moving a wing, cruising close to Willow on the edge, then flaps of an oily rag, giving us quork and claw.