The crow flies approximately 15 miles from her nest.

Her universe is over the land.

From here she sees the nature of man.

His clusters of huts, the small winding paths between

the trees, the smith working bellows to make bright

objects to reflect the light of the sun.

She sees forests being cut down, wood piled high

for wains to take away. Red cloth flapping in the wind.

She smells cooking fires, longs for the smokehouses

preserving meat.

All of their territories marked out in hedgerows,

rock fences. All pretty. All neat.

She wants to rise higher on an updraft

but the Great Circle appears on the horizon.

She descends.

Landing on the lintel stone stretched between

two monoliths, she shakes her feathers and caws.


The dead are dead.

Enclosed with the earth, within walls of

blue stone.

Vessels of grain are stored to hold them over

for the journey to the Shadowlands.

Such a waste, she thinks.

The Great Circle protects mother and father.

Sister and brother. Gives them an eternal embrace.

Her black eyes dart around, the clouds have shifted.

The sun shines through a keyhole of souls

the crow knows them.

She sees them on their way.