The Fourth Craw
‘wasnae there at a’ Too much is said about night – its fullness jug-heavy with distance poured out into star-mapped flight. But in the sky, protecting her addled head, was a strange sense of grounding – as if light were solid, for standing. And from these things – sparks in the high darkness a smouldering moon – came music, the raven’s song. Its sound could wither the feathers of eagles make fire from ice play tricks with existence changing form at a whim. In the dim-lit great hall of glittering stories the broken shine of the moon crackles.