Perspectives

The crow and the raven fly over the cemetery, their fluttering paths weaving above the antique graves of men long dead. They alight on the shoulders of an angel weeping stone tears and watch the funeral. Stiff black ranks of mourners bow over the coffin. A priest drones the usual words. Raindrops tap politely on the varnished pine lid. A sodden flag hangs at half mast, lifeless. Wet mud trickles onto the gravel path.

The crow and the raven fly away. Yesterday there had been a wedding; today there are no unattended plates of food. There is no reason to stay.