Perched out on a small black branch, deep inside the forest, I watch with beady black eyes the scene that unfolds before me. I do not hear well, being a raven, but as clear as an October morning, I hear her screams of pure terror. The sound of it ruffles my plumage. I must say, if I were a young girl with a very large beast staring me right in the eye, I too would shriek such as that. The human lament is an interesting sound, and can express much more than any raven could in all his life. In fact, I myself sometimes envy man for his emotions. But I used to more than now, because I once observed a grieving man. He ended his life. If human emotions could drive one to death, I certainly would not want to experience too many. Perhaps love, though.
I look up from my musings just in time to witness a great horror, or at least it would be, to a human. The wolf pounced upon the girl, her poppy-red riding hood becoming stained with the color of her black-red blood. But, of course, being a raven I feel no pity for her, and I cannot, even if I wanted to. At that fleeting moment, I stretched my wings and took off, cawing to tell the world of a death in the woods. If I can't mourn her, another should. But why can I ponder, and not experience?
