By Annelida K SmithVail
I walk past the raven carcass again. Every time, I am somehow surprised it is still there, but why wouldn’t it be? It’s at the edge of the forest, out of the way of people, but right by a road that animals prefer to avoid. I imagine the raven’s spirit spreading its wings, flying joyfully from the site of its death. I imagine its body breaking down, becoming a part of the land. I imagine, but all I can see is a corpse, wings splayed out, bones exposed, a record of death and nothing more.