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A pair of ravens circles overhead at the last water source, then 2 miles later wait to greet me once again from a fence post as I approach. They fly off, drawn by the call of their black-winged tribe, to assemble overhead in defense of the skies. The hawk looks sheepish in his unwinnable predicament. Or do the ravens actually follow him in deference, his sharp predatorial eyes capable of resting dinner for the lot of them?

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