We crows are the messengers of the dead, bringing tidings back into the sunlight from beyond the veil of night. Once, in the strength of my youth, I took pride in this. Of course I had never passed a message from anyone dead, spoken to, or even taken a personal interest in anyone dead. There was no connection at all, but I half believed, and wholly took pride in this myth.
The truth is, I am a scavenger. Not even a picky scavenger. A dead mouse, a discarded piece of bread, a bit of hamburger fallen on the sidewalk from some child’s lunch, it’s all the same to me.
Even so, I had stamina to fly forever, feathers as black and shining as the darkest night, a call that would echo for miles. Surely that was all reason to believe.
Now I am old. I tire easily. My feathers are a dark and dusty gray. Many of them are missing. They are brittle and pull out easily. The only thing I have ever returned to the earth from the dead is the broken meats from the corpse of a fox or squirrel that I may have been lucky enough to find. The only way I have ever delivered it as a message is to perhaps accidentally drop it on someones head.
My concerns now are how to hold my wings out another way. A way that requires less effort now that my strength is gone. How to find something to eat that no-one else has noticed yet. No-one stronger, faster, more determined, less in need.
Ah, from this rooftop I can watch the entire arc of the sun and moon.
I can no longer keep myself aloft. I no longer feel the cold. The earth pulls me to it’s bosom. Soon my body will be scavenged by rot and insects, my bones leached into the soil, minerals to nourish an occasional blade of grass producing the tiniest of yellow flowers—a message from the dead.
No comment yet, add your voice below!