I am a small thing, an extremely small thing. Outside skating on the ice in the driveway, wearing slip-ons meant for August, watched two ravens tear out of the canopy, wings heavy (I could hear their beat) and voices going. Two, so I’m not sure whether they were mating or mobbing, but they paused (mid-air) over cedars, circling, building to the apex, then down again. Some centre, real or ritual. Reminds me, now, of two camped on a stubbed toe of pink granite polished by the wind’s constant beat (no relent), me one, watching a gang struggle against the current, wings furious, bodies paused, then slipping back in the flow. Now, on the router, a western conifer, six legs delicate, belly-cattled, heavy, settled over the second of the two bars, and I think I am a small thing, an extremely small thing.