We ravens are sharp-sighted so it’s not as if we didn’t see what happened to Ferko. His older brothers took out both his eyes, broke his legs, and left him to starve in the forest.
He’s crawled up here to die on the grass under the shade of the gallows where my friend and I are perched.
I ask my raven friend, “What do you think? Is there anything remarkable about this neighborhood?” He starts cawing about the morning dew that restores sight and the lake that heals limbs.
Ferko knows bird speech. He’s half-dead, but he’s listening.
He’ll be back on his feet in no time.