We’ve been in Moab for five days. I had planned several different rambles through the area. Interestingly, we’ve only done two. I blame it on the raven who met us at the end of the first walk among some of the lesser-known arches. We had a moment together, though, and that changed everything.
Just as the coyotes captivated me on Cape Cod, the ravens have cast a spell over me here. Other than a trip to Canyonlands National Park, where we snuck in a few jaunts, we’ve returned to that first area where I met the raven, again and again.
The ravens greet us now. One follows us on our five-mile walk. He seems to be sitting in the same area when we pull up in the minivan. I greet him, ask him how his morning is, he croaks and chirps in response, and I invite him to join us. Interestingly, he does.
The three of us take the lead; he leapfrogs us with much croaking, clicking, gurgling, and chatting. Then we pass him and the whole act plays out repeatedly.
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