Crow and Birch


In my flannel pajamas, fleece robe, and wool slippers, sitting in a rocker on the porch, drinking coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug soaking up its comforting warmth, watching wet bedraggled chick-a-dees and juncos flit around the feeder. The morning is grey, sodden, and chilly, just the tiniest green buds are visible on the leafless trees. Spring feels a million miles away, but I will sit right here (im)patiently and wait for it, as long as I have coffee in my cup. I refuse to think of all the things I want to do in the yard when the rainy cold mist finally abates or any of the thousands of indoor projects large and small that need doing but I have no interest in starting. I just want to absorb here and now, observing tiny black and white birds enjoying this grey day. A raucous caw grabs my attention, dragging it across the road, up above the wet grey trees. There he is, a giant black crow, silhouetted against a brightening grey sky, water on his feathers glistening deepest black, a pulling black hole I could fall into, perched atop a bright white branchless dead birch tree. These polar opposites, black and white, shining in the sky, a reverse beacon that has pulled all color from this rainy world leaving only grey, wet, and chill. There is sunshine behinds the wall of fog masquerading as the sky, trying to burn through with its intense silver fire, too bright to look as directly. That glistening deepest black crow calls again, takes flight, and disappears into the the shimmering silver abyss. I sit still, listen to the water drip off the roof and trees, watch the chick-a-dees, smiling.


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