by daishin stephenson
i sipped coffee and looked out a window. a crow lay in the yard under the white oak. hours passed, the crow had not moved. i approached the bird. blood oozed from its nostril, its leg bent at the knee in a direction it should not. i picked it up, carried it inside. i placed the bird on a floor pillow. beside the pillow, a bowl of water. we spent the afternoon there on the floor. the crow died on the pillow. i felt loss, sadness. death is commonplace, part of the cycle. i sometimes forget that and it is good to be reminded. this is what happens when you invite something wild into your home. Comments are closed.
|
© DOCKYARD PRESS