Taylor Denton
Exodus The dark smog along the skyline only slightly obscures the raven’s vision. She looks down from her perch rather than across the smoking plains that once were her forest. Her gaze does not break from the moaning creature below her, lying on its side, its neck angled strangely. She cocks her head as his cries lessen. He is close, close now. She remains unsure of what the stag is dying from, though, at this point, the cause does not matter. She would never know. She only knows that his insides will rot and ooze and liquidize into mush. His chest rises and falls slowly, his eyes dart around in a frantic loop of movement. She wonders if he can see her. She unfurls her wings and caws, just enough for the sound to reach him. The raven once enjoyed taunting the stag when boredom arose; he had been easily tricked. The stag was once the pride of his herd, mammoth in proportion with antlers that nearly surpassed his height; she used to wonder if they might touch the sky. The young humans left gifts at his feet
antilang. no. 5
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