Ravens live a long time.
Forty or fifty years, I’ve been told.
They also make strong family bonds.
So when they are old and dying, all of their family gathers around.
A final tribute? To say goodbye.
The old raven falls from the branch to the ground, thrashes his wings, and lies still.
The others take flight, and circle above.
One after the other, they fly off.
Until there are no more.
You barely notice it lying there.
Until you hear the lawnmower choke.
A spray of black feathers with the grass clippings.
A brief, ghastly stink.
Just keep mowing.