CAW. CAW. CAW. CAW. - Tall Tales

10,000 crows cawing in the trees. First comes the swoop then comes the claw then comes the carnage of unexpected unprotected knowledge. The sun is setting and all I can do is yawn and watch the crows cover every branch. I try to count them - only their noise is distracting and discombobulating. They don’t teach you how to make strict observations within the din of an unconscious smear of ink. Sometime last year a whole murder fell out of the sky - wham bam thank you ma'am. And that was that. All done up and wrapped in sheer misery. My tea is cold, i've lost my train of thought again.


Suddenly it's raining heavily, I worry that i've forgotten my coat. I've absolutely no recollection of there being rain in the forecast. The El Niño steamroller is souping up, and the whales know the way home. They will whistle directions from Scotland. Come home! The crows don't get the message, and even if they did, they don’t speak whale. Home is where you nest in comfort, security and love. Ideally. The nest all full of bright shiny stuff and nonsense.

Sometimes a crow catches you staring and stares back at you, black beady eyes bounding up and down as it hops across the road to tear at a squirrel that's been rolled over to oblivion. A cemetery of sound, my misanthropic heart beating in time with the hopping. A faint taste of bile in my mouth. The worst is when it pulls a string of tendon, or intestine, or some other bonne bouche that only a crow cloaked in black appreciates. We are all scavengers of one thing or another. Love, attention, the next greatest thing, the just out of reach, the lonely forgotten, and out there. Unnaturally natural and alone. We wait attentively but never quite as patiently as we say we are. Tick Tock. A squirrel ran up the tree launched herself into the great abyss and kept flapping with a cheek full of cheer and good tidings for the other scourers and transients. The messenger always brings good tidings - or brings nothing (you want to hear). Stuck in limbo pretending not to notice the good time gals pushing their sultry agenda or suspecting apathetic. A shadow flies overhead.


I can't get it out of my head. A litany, a sermon, a chastisement, a surrender, a majestic overture to unity saying 'hey man, let's hit the hay'. Tomorrow will pass as it did today - only different, maybe not quite so regimented. A little less tortured. Unorganized, unrecognized, for sure. Every single inch of the gloaming covered in iridescence. And every single night they fly in, fold their wings in a tight animated and momentary hallucination, and say goodnight…


“Good night”

The Sample
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Jamie Larson