Crows

Something I wrote a while ago but have never gotten around to again...

Crows
Alone on a clock tower stood a fine little crow scanning the ground below him, where a little stream flowed off of the main tributary. He was watching and listening with his head cocked, waiting for the signal. The tower on which he stood, a black metal framework with a clock on each of the four sides, chimed the midnight hour. A sudden caw, caw of another crow made him cock his head in the other direction. This he knew was not the signal, and was yet another sign of delay. So he closed his eyes and hunkered down, head into wings. The wind ruffled his feathers a bit so he shook them out and shifted his position. He was thinking of the last council, all of the bickering that had occurred. Many had left then, off to the high mountain pines, bah! Let them go and good riddance! That day had been oppressive, the seasons had been shifting from summer to fall. The air dusty here and there from the crackling dryness and the mischievous whirlwinds. The clouds up above were foreboding, gathering all of the moisture into their greedy depths, giving the earth an eerie incandescent glow. The leaves had been drifting on the ground aimlessly, like they were driven along by silent ghosts, held aloft by the spirits. That day, she had walked past. The crows, too numerous to count, all standing around in groups of varying sizes, were pecking at the ground and hopping around to jockey for position. He had looked into her eyes. She knew, he felt she must have been ashamed at their bickering, but had been too polite to reproach them. Instead she gazed at the dancing leaves and grabbed for her father’s hand. He lifted her up and she skipped along, glanced back at the crows as she passed.

A Different Kind of War - Circa 1995

The heat in the night was ruthless,

unforgiving.

As I felt the heavy tanks thundering across the land

I thought of how this bloody shed of life is to our mothers

who have made this miracle of life.

The war is not of nations and guns

but of hearts and souls.

The mothers tender heart breaks with each of her dying children,

she weeps a million tears until her heart is hard,

solid

and can weep no more.

Irony

Do you know what I'm guilty of?

Irony

Ha

Bitter Irony

and why?

Because of the cycle...

snatched from youth

to raise youth

to give it all...

though young still

to be considered old

and why?

Because my young are old

and I

I

am ironic

Some generally un-profound thoughts...

Interesting, how life ebbs and flows

a swirling, maniacal mass of information

drifting into your fuzzy awareness

as you awaken each day

to do just about the same thing that you did as the day before,

yet somehow each day

there is just a little shift

a change so minute that the passage of such an event goes unoticed

and one day you awaken to realise

that all of the minute details

are the essence of life

you may curse yourself for having let it all slip by

or

you may live in a nostalgic awareness of a life well lived

you may not even notice at all

until it's over