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Compelled to chat with ravens

There are ravens in Dawson City—large, fluffy, cleverly-curious ravens, whose neck looks shrouded with a fur coat rather than with feathers. These birds are big and bold and comical.

I lived in Pickle Lake several lifetimes ago, where ravens were as plentiful as snowstorms (or so it seemed). The ravens perched on the telephone wires and watched the snow banks grow closer to their feet as winter progressed, and they complained to anyone walking by in voices that were described by the Toronto Star as rusty hinges.

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