A Dozen Crows

A couple dozen crows migrated above me, cackling and cawing. It felt like it had been for me, their clawing for palms to rest upon and flapping through mangled stems, fighting its resistance, to get one un-cured olive. My eyes were fixed on the lack of scarcity in the sky, on the birds, wind, reaching trees, the color blues, a flickering plane, a fiery star. It had to be for me. These aimless occasions were muddled together for my view, and I was watching. It took all of ten minutes before the night birds cleared out. I myself went back home but not without dwelling on the moment wholeheartedly. I wonder what they had been thinking, what story their wings played back as they pushed through the night time gust and subtle breeze. The sunset with a mixture of cerulean and azure, but the sky was not yet void of light.

I found my way to the banister to catch my thoughts. I’ve been thinking a lot. Much has changed, yet, so much remains the same. In this case, I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of. What remains? Or what has gone? What is for me, and what no longer belongs? These matters never make their way out of my brain, so I feel quite clumsy, letting them spill out onto these pages. Even the thought of hoisting them up to the heavens reminds me that there may be an answer and so I’ll swallow them hard, these questions, and wait for the next bird migration.
And what if I were to play a little game with myself? To take a think about my queries. Something tells me that I might be okay. There will always be an implied danger when gazing skyward and, more specifically, up at birds. Not knowing what will trickle down, and yet still knowing exactly what it may be, naturally. It’s a reach, BUT maybe it’s the same:

The culmination of my thoughts lifts me until they’re perched above my head, minding their way, rocking back and forth like a buoy in a sea of trees. But the risk (of looking up) is always worth it. Much better than the inevitable time for such thoughts to flock away (or your bird). And voilà, words have such a way of journeying through on behalf of your tender heart.

Alas, I have my answer: That no matter the question, “if it’s for me or the wind,” I simply don’t want you to go. And so if I must watch and wait, sit back from a distance; that is how far my love can go. It can grant you the freedom you need (something I was afraid to give you before because I wasn’t sure you’d return). And maybe you never fly back to me my bird, I’ve found joy in writing you back into my life, seeing you in the mundane from this bench, and understanding that your flight doesn’t harm me. I feel proud of you, my careless crow, for forgetting about me long enough to frolic through your freedom. For instinctively knowing you may always land in my thoughts.
Now I understand what is for me. The patio lamp must be turned on as the light evades the sky and the heat my dinner. But I’m no longer bitter or void of view, as I said, I understand what is for me. I’m rekindled with a passion for you that I need to get off my chest and into yours, I need to show you all I’ve learned. My burdened heart won’t move from this seat, my gosh I am so warm. Because here is where I’ve remembered and reclaimed you, I dare anyone to move me from this seat. It is mine, fit for my body, for the slanted dance it does as I lie back thinking of you. What power I’ve allowed you to have, what strength I have bestowing it onto you. Our moment has been had, here. I am content. Now I must go nourish my gut, to pray for another silent moment with you, to warm my body yet again as we wait for you.

Published by Miss Parisia B.

Writer, Storyteller, Lover

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