The Raven

On a barren mountain top, boulders gray and strewn with rocks, thermal winds that rose and dropped, sat the Raven, head half-cocked. The Raven watched the butterfly as it softly fluttered by, he heard the gulf wind's gentle sigh, as soothing as a lullaby. He fluffed his feathers, began to preen, so black, they're blue, his feathers gleamed, high above the great ravine, he stoically surveyed the scene. The Raven cherished shiny things, like Reynolds Wrap and Christmas string, one time, he found a tiny ring, another time, a ballpoint's spring. Sunset found him in his nest, among the treasures he loved best, head tucked into his feathered breast, content, he took his final breath.