It’s one of my dearest possessions, the raven skull. I don’t know why, exactly. It’s worth to me can only be defined by the whispers of the ancients. I study the finite structure of bone and beak that once was a flesh and blood being, soaring the desert thermals above me, speaking a language all it’s own. And it calls to me to treasure it, to keep it safe, to show it reverence and respect, as with all nature. And so, as part of that ceremony, it finds itself on a canvas, larger than life. Or in this case, death.