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Day 360: The Space Between

Image result for raven

Standing beside the freshly dug grave tears and blood that isn’t hers streak her face. Instead of the Christian marker of a cross, her lover’s sword marks where his head lies, a piece of both their tartans wrapped and tied around the hilt. She turns away, red eyes that have no more tears a mirror of the sphere in the sky. The wind picks up as she walks unflinchingly into the spreading shadows. The dying light of the sun outline a raven watching her from a nearby tree “no matter how far you fly from me I will find  you, always.” The bird flies away, leaving a single feather at the base of the tree.  She picks up the feather and tucks it into the pouch at her waist and runs after the raven or maybe to the flickering hearths of home, somehow colder because he’s not there. One of the older women has left an extra blanket for her so she won’t miss him when she sleeps, at least that’s the idea.

The sun chases the moon. The seasons fold into each other warmer than colder than warm again and so on, over and over until the grave on the hill is joined by a second, this one marked not by a sword but a simple carving of a bird. The sun chases the moon again and the seasons fold in on themselves until there is a town where the village used to stand and it hums with electricity. The town is bigger than the village and there are paved roads where once there was dirt. The two graves are still on the hill overlooking the town, one of the few things untouched by the passage of progress. Nothing escapes time though. The blade of the sword disappeared into rust long ago, leaving only the tiniest bit of boiled leather from the hilt and even that will be gone soon enough. The carved bird fares little better, it’s weathered features almost indecipherable. Curiously, there is a small pile of ravens feathers underneath a nearby tree. The feathers have all been left there by women. Some have come purposely, others found the place by chance but all compelled to leave the same single token. The feathers remain immutable by the forces of time and weather in spite of everything science says should have happened to them. A man and woman stand on this hill, shadowed by the sun setting at their backs. She takes the ravens feather that she has carried in her hat band for several years and places it with the others. She leans against the man in the setting sun, “I told you that no matter how far you flew from me I will find you.”

Authors note: I do indeed have a hat with a raven’s feather in the band. A raven gave it to me on my last day in Colorado, as far as the rest of the story…