A Raven

I was reminiscing about the time when as young man of just twenty I was travelling by bicycle through the countryside, a chance to escape the house for a few days, maybe a week if the money lasted. I cycled from home through roads with broken houses and hearts, sad empty streets and those that were active and where life prospered. After a while the roads became lanes and then into the green hills that fell away like huge paintings as I cycled past, the air fresh on my cheeks and lungs.
My diaries were spread across the desk in front of me, some faded and tatty, others clean with a dull shine, the elaborate spine of a fortieth birthday present to myself giving a youthful wink. I shifted my position in the chair with an old diary warm in my hand, I stretched my neck and rolled out the ache from my shoulders. From the corner of my eye, I saw a raven had appeared, sitting outside of my apartment window, perched on an ornate cast iron street lamp that I had salvaged from when they were tearing up the roads; cobbles to tarmac. Since moving here it has stood elegantly overlooking a side passage within the gardens. The Raven rotated its head left to right on its static body, the winter sun reflecting as white as the snow on the magnificent oil black plumage that provided the bird its warmth but made it foreign to the white landscape around. He mapped the ground below, which was out of sight to me, the Raven capturing every sense, every nuance that inhabited its atmosphere, constantly aware. So, that when he flew, which was more of a an assured hop as if he were on level ground, he knew where he was heading, though the unknown hung in the air like the last of the snow. I witnessed this with the eyes and heart of a young man, the same I still possess. My gaze drifted back to the spread of leather, paper and board, where memories bathed and secrets jutted out, like rocks on a beach, some fully exposed, others hidden, but still there. The Raven returned, to the now shaded lamppost, it was unclear if this short foray below had been a success or not. This time he flitted back and forth his feet moving quickly, looking around, head high and excited or low and intense. His body was larger and more imposing than before, puffed up and on show, as if other creatures were viewing his actions, had felt his presence, another distraction within animal routine. From his vantage atop the lamppost, it was as if this had meant little to the future of his life. A distraction. One which might be forgotten, as it might be for the other creatures below my window who saw what I could not, a part of life that they will forever carry in their actions and instincts though hold no memory of it. The Raven continued to strut with his small step, but it had taking a new meaning, a dance going from fox trot to waltz, the final move being a slow push into the air, his black angled cape spreading to wings.