First lines:
The trickster bird would be with me yet a while: a bird of beginnings and of ends, of midpoints and turning points and a world turning over.
He seemed to follow me through these dark days, a coal-black shadow trailing after me in the skies. He did not seem a bearer of bad luck, no omen of death crying “Nevermore!” atop latilla post or chamber door. If anything, he seemed solicitous, concerned.
Perhaps he understood how close I was, had been for too long, to the edge, now one so high and steep that one slip would be irrecoverable.
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