Mate

The old white raven was alone now. 

His mate of twenty years passed this morning, falling from a branch into the kind grass, no remorse for a moment, of course, to the final frozen silence. He went to another nearby tree, lost. Not knowing now what to do alone. They often sang together, the forests their echoing chorus- both could deftly mimic nearly any sound they heard. Her favorite was to mimick the fox, mocking the critter's screamy, high-pitched howl. His favorite, the wolve's low, drama growl. The two were smart, even smarter together. Both white ravens loved to be lazy. Tricking other animals into catering their preys' leftovers, all good fun, a long, beautiful life, always together. Sacred birds, mating once, forever, there will be no other now for the old raven. 

Only waiting for the coming darkness.