well, upon studying the image closer, it’s definitely a raven. i think. pretty sure. now i’m no ornithologist, but here, take a look for yourself. regardless, the whole thing’s remarkable really. this giant bird the size of tippi’s torso is perched on her extended forearm with tarantula talons pinching, this perfect accessory coiled around her dainty wrist. they’re a flawless match, each one complementing the other in this new symbiosis. it looks natural. like they were made for each other & this moment. like their intimacy’s spreading its wings & about to take flight. tip & the bird both appear relaxed (too much so), soothed even, which is quite the shock given the context; i say that as if i have any expertise in reading raven body language. (i don’t.) the raven holds this twig of a match while the flame creeps to the cigarette protruding from tip’s lips, & the two look as though they’re sculpting a nest in the shared space suspended between them, using this beautiful burning lollipop as their base. the fire flickers but a few inches from their engaged lips; surely, they feel its heat. perhaps i’m witnessing a seldom captured moment of uninterrupted concentration here; perhaps their collective willpower is the fuel balancing this baby beak flame between them. there is such a determined stillness to this image—such a poised, calm composure to the whole thing that i worry my visual consumption alone risks rupturing their link, risks rippling their apparent tranquility & startling the two to fly off, ditching hollywood for far less intrusive pastures. for me, the most unsettling bit of this photograph is the weight it gives to this raven’s résumé. it’s absurd for a bird. it’s left me gawking at my own inadequacies, left me wanting my own talons—left me ready to pinch my nails black, dawn a beak, sew feathers into my skin, & hollow out my bones. whatever it takes to embody the complex essence of this godlike creature. whatever it takes for me to so eloquently offer a light to the next person I meet. whatever it takes to sprout wings & tackle the sky—croaking & screeching my joy, my terror, & every little thing in between.

~~~

Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a fiction editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Door Is a Jar Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Ellipsis Zine, among others. Connect @AbbieDollWrites.