Sculpting the air

It is a blustery day out. The Ravens and I love the wind. I suspect they love it because they get to play. They soar, hover, glide and dip. They are masters of wind currents, primary feathers outstretched like so many black fingers, they'll rest in one spot, occupying but a single moment in the sky. Their wings, tail and body constantly adjust with the shifting gusting wind, to hold them right there, as the wind swirls off a house, or a shed, or a truck.

And then suddenly they shift and peel away, up into the sky, like some kite free of the string that binds it to the earth. Tumbling through the air, they adjust again, fold their wings and come back to that same box in the sky that held them before. Only to do it all over again, and again.

Everywhere I look right now I see Ravens playing in the air, or hunkered down, puffed up against the cold and taking a break from play. Back to the serious business of lording their mastery over the rest of us, mere earth bound mortals that we are.