At the mouth of the Tennessee Valley where the Pacific argues daily with the coast, a lone raven follows in my footsteps across the beach spouting his philosophy to the wind.
“No other god,” he says, “no other god.”
I look at him and shrug my shoulders. Winter storms have rearranged the landscape, a new spring has sliced a scar across the face of the cliff, and last summer’s rock wall has been buried by a mudslide. I stop and notice the changes. Behind me, the raven stops and folds his wings.
“No other god,” he says, “no other god.”
“No other god,” he says, “no other god.”
I look at him and shrug my shoulders. Winter storms have rearranged the landscape, a new spring has sliced a scar across the face of the cliff, and last summer’s rock wall has been buried by a mudslide. I stop and notice the changes. Behind me, the raven stops and folds his wings.
“No other god,” he says, “no other god.”
