As I sit within a yard of this large, healthy black bird, I wonder how much meat is on those bones. It stands, aware of my presence and the large black lense pointed in its direction, but it looks away as if to swell its chest and declare "Ha". Like a boy throwing stones, I inch ever closer, hoping to unnerve the unnervable, but it does not flinch or so much as look in my direction.

I contemplate the risk of injury from the its wings and beak, should I proceed. I wonder idly about the taste of feathers and the amount of seconds it would take to satisfy that curiousity. As I crouch there, it turns it's head to the side, giving me full view of its large pointed beak as it eyes me back with one yellow ringed eye.

I gradually become aware that I am being watched too, not only from the other Ravens nearby, who gawk at me with no apparent fear and seem rather more like sentries than birds, but from my own traveling companions. My slow stalking has gathered their attention, and as the seconds tick by, I was spending just little too much time staring at the bird for mere curiosities sake.

I move back, still in the crouch, retreating like a submissive subordinate but of the wrong species. As I walk away, the name, Death Valley, flickers to mind. I turn to look over my shoulder, but the Raven has gone, and I am left with only the thought to chew over.

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Memories from Death Valley, CA from Fall 2006