The thing to know about ravens is that they don’t leave tracks the way other birds do.  It is not just a matter of raven feet, of tearing raven talons.

Rather, ravens leave their thoughts scattered sideways in out-of-print books, in footnotes that should not be there and that are written in extinguished languages.  Sometimes they discuss the number of coins it would take to imbalance a businessman’s greed.  Sometimes they dissect (pitilessly, that goes without saying) the libretti of operas where too many characters wear black.  They find it presumptuous.

At other times, ravens leave feather-imprints in corroded steel.  Saying that everything decays, but even doomed things can fly for a little while.

Ravens leave snarled adages in traffic jams and scratch oaths old and terrible into 1s and 0s.  (Ravens are not atheists.  They know their own lineage too well.)

Curiously, ravens are scrupulous about leaving souls unmarked.  It turns out that any weavework scars and appoggiaturas of grace you find are what you put there yourself.

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