Raven Cabal


I sense tension in the raven community. Aki picks up on it. On Gastineau Avenue, they burst from beneath a salmon berry patch when we approach. One appears to act as a lookout from a perch that provides an unobstructed view of the MV Zaandam’s bow ropes. Ripe salmon berries, some red, others a milky orange distract me away from the ravens. But, like the ravens’ moods, they are sour.


The little dog and I descend the Ewing Way steps to Lower Franklin Street and then walk past Tracy’s Crab Shack to the cruise ship dock. The disembodied voice of the Zaandam’s cruise ship director lets his passengers know that it is now safe to disembark. Early risers waddle down the Zaandam’s gangplank, pose for a picture with a crewman dressed as an eagle, and move into a swarm of land-tour hawkers. Aki powers past the false eagle and toward a gang of ravens shredding the ropes that secure the Zaandam to the dock. One, apparently the local lookout, watches us pass. Aki doesn’t even bark.



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