Ravens collect coils of vine, twists of ribbon, and shiny discarded baubles. They have been known to incorporate barbed wire into their nests. Corvus corax adapt and use whatever catches their eye to construct their sky-harbors. As I cull through old words, seek out new images and hunt for the unexpected turn of phrase – ravens inspire me. Country streamers of pavement veer through lush fields, between shade-shaped copses, around farm houses and new houses and old houses that settle into the ground like moldering stumps. Trembling heart shaped leaves gleam, shimmering grass hums just out of hearing range while the breeze slips from the sky to ride in the sliver chains of schoolyard swings. Fuchsia skirts. Scallops of cloud. Scimitars of dirt under my fingernails. The Writer Elkhound digging into the turf. I am agog in summer. I want the clouds to build – the tempest to write itself with sky bones and Mars blood. Doing some research for a new story idea I find a nifty list of odd places: that kind of empty building that slumps a bit to one side; abandoned tunnels; ruins from another time – rusted and covered with briers; corridors filled with Twilight Zone ozone; and country lanes that seemingly lead nowhere. The kind of places that chill the skin and stir the imagination. After a morning walk with the Writer Elkhound, I put pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard. Repetition is one method. Jumping in, bodacious & elated, is another. I witness two bold ravens today. And proceed accordingly.