Walking With The Crows

The sun throws golden cream across the landscape in the late afternoon.  Yellow and red leaves scuffle across the silvery pavement and I am walking with the crows. 

I’ve no pressing schedule to keep.  No one knows me who might need my attention.  Save for my son and I left him with enough algebra to de-tangle that he won’t be needing me anytime soon.

Why I am so drawn to crows, I don’t know.  Not as in an academically rational answer.  But I like them.  For their intelligence and silky blackness.  For their surety.  Some birds seem to dawdle about.  Not the crow.  The crow always looks to be on top of things, even when they’re looking stupid, which isn’t often.

It is said that in North America, the crow is an omen of death.  I don’t see the crow that way. 

The crow to me, symbolizes the greatness of the ungreat.  I like watching them strut, or sitting atop a fence post eyeing the world around them as they call out to passers by. 

The crow is chutzpah robed in glossy black sass.   Just obvious enough for a double take and just subtle enough to go without suspicion.

If the crow is a spirit messenger, he brings me news of resurgence and renewal. 

So onward I went with the crows.  One of them, a little larger than the others, walked away from me, turned around to look at me and then behind me as if watching my back.  I liked that. 

It was a peacefully reassuring closure to an otherwise harried day.




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