The Call of the Crow
I pretend to do be doing yoga as I lie on to top of my
fluffy blanket. Looking up over my pale, freckled forehead, I can see a strip
of sky from the two paned window above my bed. The wisps of clouds are nearly
coalescing into something beautiful and bigger than themselves. I wait for them
to become some magnificent shape, like I remember clouds being when I was young,
back when they formed all the images from the stories and dreams in my head.
But they remain little stringy meshes moving quickly on the wind, like if flavorless
cotton candy had been pulled apart and set out on a breeze.
The caw, caw, caws of the crow in one of the trees behind
the concrete wall just beyond my window serenade me and my attention. I want to
see what the commotion is, but the yoga video playing softly on my laptop says
I’m only half way through, so I don’t more than glance at the small block of
sky I can see. The chorus of cacophonous calls is somehow more melodic to me
than the plinking sounds playing behind the instructor who hushingly tells me
to breathe deeply and relax.
What was one bird quickly becomes a symphony. I even see
some darts of dark wings across my bit of blue-filled vision. How many they
are, or even if they are all crows, I cannot say. I’m supposed to be focusing
on my breathing in time with my stretches. But the drama of the unseen birds somehow
feels more important than my stiff back or the ache in my shoulder.
The yoga on my bed isn’t much of a workout, but it’s better
than idly laying on my bed, which feels like what I mostly do. Besides, a cold
is clawing at my throat so I should be taking it easy, finding some peace and
quiet I tell myself. But the black winged creatures squawk and sing again,
tempting me to give up. I take a long breath and feel my lungs struggle with
the depth of it all.
Thinking I’ve contented myself to making stories in my head,
I decide that the birds are trying to give me a sign of some kind. My most
beloved professor told me once that I should listen when animals try to talk to
me, that once we all knew how to hear the natural world, but that we’d lost it.
If I’m still, she said, I could maybe regain it. I try and twist my head without
moving out of my pose to get at least a glimpse of the birds cavorting in the
trees, at least a snapshot to see what they’re trying to tell me. I wriggle my
neck from side to side, worsening the ache in my shoulder, but all I see is
blue sky and the rock pocked edges of my apartment walls.
When I’m finally released from the yoga video, I spin up onto
my knees and look out my window. Surely now, I will see these creatures who had
captivated me so. I look at the leafless, bare trees and find that only a few
members of the chorus remain, staring into the now clear fall day. Silent.
Maybe one day I’ll see their song and understand, I sigh. But,
for today, I turn my back on them and idly sink deeply back into the softness
of my silent bed.
Comments
Post a Comment