the crow is such an elegant creature. black, sleek, the light of intelligence in their gleaming impenetrable eyes. all but gone from my city existance. i wonder why they all choose the peaks of individual, bare branches to perch on? what is it that they think about, sitting there, looking down at us going about our way? how futile, how hurried, how desperate our mad, noisy, dusty, rushing about must seem to them - creatures of wind and light and speed and grace...
i found some interesting bits about crows in popular culture, myth and superstition
here and this is the squidoo page about crows in mythology.
i am glad i saw so many of them today. how did they end up becoming the cunning tricksters of my childhood tales? such lovely beings. if there is a life again, after this one fades, i wish to be a crow.
is anyone listening?
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