By Andrea Miotto
The crow out my upper window
Swaying on his slender, brave branch,
as I sat thinking spiritual thoughts
Invaded my eyes and my heart.
So close I could look deep into the pool of iridescence on its
many-colored wings.
Black wings without bottom,
Flaming in the sun.
Crows, I had thought:
Cawing, communal, curious, crafty.
Vicious.
Courageous, this stern-faced watcher humbled me,
And, humbled, I learned.
It was free.
Lonely.
Lovely.
The bough, uptilted, struggled gallantly to bear up its guest,
Its budding green a striking contrast to the Crow’s dazzling black,
The dandy, he knew it and was proud.
The Crow gave me this gift:
He let me drink him in
Obsidian beak to fanned tail, carefully displayed.
I didn’t know I thirsted.
The crow brought nature to me;
I so rarely go to it.
The nature with the security of its own spirit
The tyranny of its own rules
The wildness of its own unexpected, ungraspable harmony.
With a still small voice in the midst of the storm,
The agonizing beauty of tiny moments
suspended, pinned in time
Never static, sometimes still.
Beautiful because so true
Agony because so sudden and so short
Whispering,
Cease thinking.
Listen!
Andrea Miotto is a Baltimore-based freelance writer, editor, and tutor. She blogs at www.coronacompassion.net.
Feature Image: Photo by Phillip Capon