A murder of crows..
A murder? Who thought of this? Who decided to name these avian historians such a dark and angry name when they group, as if the fault is theirs?
These crows, they fluttered, feather askew, ruffled by the capricious wind, flapped and fluttered like ragged scraps of Death's cloak torn free from his regalia and flung skyward with little heed for up or down or any compass points. Scattered into the dusking sky, harbingers of another soul parted from form.
Soul, or spirit? What's the difference?
It was a deer, doe, unwary, perhaps not understanding the huge and forceful mechanical monster that bore down on her with speed she couldn't comprehend or calculate, catching her mid-leap then tossing her aside and roaring onward with no consequence save maybe a chipped tooth and a shaking driver who has somewhere to be, can't stop, stupid deer should've known better, on a timetable, dammit I hope she didn't wreck my front end.
The crows are brave, hopping to the side of the road and then back to her bounty.
Soul or spirit?
She's an animal.
Ego would have us believe that she has no soul, for animals are dumb in more than one sense. But spirit they may have, for spirit is that little bit of the divine that all living things carry.
Soul, well, soul is for humans, only for humans, only for us because we are thinking, reasoning, self-aware, and more than that, aware of what is beyond us, of the indefinable. We are uniquely able to see through the light into the heart of darkness, if we dare.
I love the dark,
I hate it.
Cold and slick, it slips around me with sibilant whispers and intimations of what should.
This and that and anything that isn't.
I love the dark, the night pierced by stars and streaming light and the inexorable dance of the planets into entropy's embrace and the music that dayfolk tremble to hear in all its ecstasy. Fearful, beautiful, loathsome, beloved dark.
I love the crows. Tell me a story, cousin. Harsh cries of "Aww! AWW!!" back and forth and sometimes they land and turn their heads this way and that, staring at me and wondering what I am asking, what I am trying to tell with my hoarse, coarse mimicry of their tongue.
The crows don't know what should. They only know what was and what is. Something dies and they feast and remember and tell the tale and it carries from generation to generation from beginning to end, and in the end when the final darkness folds itself around everything, it will be the collective "Aww! AWW!!" that rolls out and slowly dies into a near imperceptible vibration that shakes the single point loose and bursts outward into the new being, rooted in the old and ringing with that corvid call.
But we're the ones with souls, I'm told, immortal souls that mark us as more and better and other and all that, and certainly the deer was beautiful in her life, and graceful, but I with my clunky motion and graceless form am the better? She provides life even in death and what do I do, in life, that is her equal?
I'm surrounded by death - dead eyed people staring at me because maybe I shine too bright within my darkness and maybe I don't care what they see with their flat eyes and cold gazes, dead spirited people who claim to have more soul, better soul because they pay lip service to something they don't believe, really, or at least they act contrary to the thing they worship.
All those shadows and shades, they don't like anything that isn't them and they claim soul as theirs alone and curse anything else.
The soul is immortality and so we are immortal, but that deer, she'll live forever in the crow's tales and in everything that feeds upon her carcass, certainly live long past the time the driver who hit her shuffles off this mortal coil and is buried in some vault where his body will never rejoin the whole and his precious soul will find itself astonished at suddenly being a deer wondering what that strange black surface is and if it can be crossed to find sweeter grass on yonder side, and what is that whistling, roaring noise?
Quote of the day...er...week...umm...hey, look, a quote!!
"...besides love, independence of thought is the greatest gift an adult can give a child." - Bryce Courtenay, The Power of One
For old quotes, look here.
For old quotes, look here.