by John Sangster
Quiet on the deck this morning. Dry July, no dew on the table, the Straits glassy flat where local breezes brushstroke the surface a darker blue. Beyond, the Olympics hunker on the horizon, their peaks touched with white. A dog barks in the distance. Closer by I hear a raven having a disjointed conversation with herself, no doubt about the events of the weekend, the raven convention that took place down here on this end of the island: caucus meetings high over the bay, two ravens flying in from the west, two from the east, and a single from who knows where, rolling and tumbling overhead. I couldn’t tell if they were arguing or partying, all of them talking at once, then sailing off only to reconvene later. At one point four ravens dropped out of the sky and did a single file, bill-to-tail U turn over the house, then vanished into the woods. I took it as a sign, but I’m not sure of what. Quiet here on the deck this morning. Too quiet.