Letters From the Desert is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Mojave Desert, 2007 I. Crow wears a band of silver on his ankle, holds it out to watch it glint in the sun like cool creek water. It is noon. He is the only one out. All others have sought shelter under the canopy of live oak, the leaves beneath the chaparral, Crow the only one among them unafraid to cast a shadow. He is a black body to absorb the sun's heat, and yet unheated.
Comment? What does one say? Again, I am almost in tears. For you. For the crows. For the raven. I want to know crows, but somehow I feel unworthy.
Who are you, really.