leafisamenace

[leafisamenace]

The Crow

I stand in my kitchen, meticulously scrubbing the dirt from under my nails and wiping the sweat from my stinging, sunburnt face. I glance out the window above my sink to admire the work I have done today. Young, dark green English Ivy sprouts reach from the dark soil towards my sturdy wooden trellis. At the edge of my garden, cloaked in his midnight garb, a crow peers over curiously. He catches the gentle breeze and glides over to the ivy, landing among them as if for a closer look. 

He turns his head in that peculiar way crows do, and suddenly pecks at an ivy sprout. In one swift motion he pulls it from the recently disturbed ground. Its roots now grasp towards the sun, barren of dirt or shade. I bolt from my kitchen to the garden to shoo this troublesome bird away but, upon arriving he has already uprooted all of my work. Then, as if to only further draw my ire, he looks at me and caws victoriously before flying off.

After I replant my ivy three times, to answer the antagonistic challenge of the crow, I decide to remain in my garden as the sun sets. I will defeat this villainous crow. My garden becomes shrouded in a quiet darkness, almost eerily so. No birds chirp, bugs buzz, cicadas or crickets sing. A peaceful silence I have conquered for myself, now besieged by a single crow.

I accidentally drift to sleep in my silent watch, swaddled by the warmth of the night air. As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, it is not the light that wakes me. Instead my morning alarm is the single, piercing, dreaded “CAW!”

My eyes snap open to see the treacherous crow, parading through his destruction, my work, my peace again uprooted. My rage billows. I lunge forward but I am only met with the cool, dew covered soil. The crow takes flight again, fleeing my garden. But that is not enough. I make a fierce chase. Like a fiend I leap over the garden wall, sprint into the woods, launch off of any trail or path in pursuit of my feathered foe. He flies from me hastily, fleeing deeper and deeper into the forest.

Suddenly I snap back to reality as my rage is replaced with exhaustion. Catching my breath I realize I am lost and alone. My grumbling stomach reminds me I had just exited the fast of sleep but I am now without any food, lost in the woods. Filled with frustration and shaken by the quiet pangs of fear, I throw myself onto the ground and cry. All while that damned crow looks down from his perch, tilting his head mockingly.

He glides down in a gentle half circle and lands next to me. Then he utters a caw so soft it almost sounds like a coo. Fueled by my frustration I, again, make a foolishly futile lunge. The crow, again, flies from my disoriented attack and perches in a tree, but remains in my sight. The woods around me feel strange. The plants are almost alien, holding a clashing complexity not seen in my garden, adorning the roads and buildings, or in the comfortable conformity of my neighbors lawns. A cacophonic chorus of birds and insects begins to overwhelm me, all while the crow inspects me with his apparent mocking pity. I grasp for a stone on the forest floor, preparing to fling it at my foe but the futility of that is revealed to me. I slump down and jealousy observe the crow. He in return observes me back. 

As I stand, preparing to desperately wander the woods, he utters another soft, cooing caw. I look towards him curiously, and he flies to a nearby branch a little farther away. Then, looking directly at me, the crow repeated his caw, almost as if it were an invitation. Being truly lost, with no other plan I decide to follow the crow as he appears to suggest. While I follow him, the crow continues to inspect me, looking back in between each flight to a new branch. He moves with a comfortable confidence while I stumble through the woods, tripping over unseen stones and roots that jut from the shadows. He guides me for what must be an hour through the intimidatingly lively woods.My stomach again growls, its gnawing accenting my desperation. Suddenly, the crow bursts ahead. I speed after him and upon catching up, I am greeted with the soothing sound of a gentle creek.

I am surrounded by a quaint glen. The canopy above opens to let in a flood of beaming sun. Flowers, wild grasses, and shrubs bask in its warmth. By the flowing creek, ferns lie in the cool shade. Under their dark fronds a frog sits softly croaking, only stopping to eat the occasional bug that crosses his path. Bees waltz among the blooming flowers accompanied by their soft buzzing. All while insects dance above the water like fae. Despite its ideal beauty, the glen still holds a sense of foreign unease over me. The crow sits in a young but established oak tree. Adorned with a blooming purple passion vine. The vine, while still dotted with the occasional brilliant bloom has gone to a fruit so bounteous the weight bends it down in places. The crow again looks at me and repeats his beckoning caw. As I approach him again, he does not flee or even flinch. Instead with a small, trusting hop he turns to look at the vine and its fruit. The beautiful deep purple of the ripe fruit is spectacular. It is a sight I have not seen since I was young when the vine would grow wildly up my grandmother’s fence. She had a garden and yard bustling with the unkempt nature of a southern prairie. It would often draw the ire of her neighbors. They were quick to complain about the unkempt plants and rabbits that would sneak into their gardens that lived there, as if they had not shot any coyote that would keep the rabbits in check. But they never complained about the hummingbirds that nested in her trees or the lightning bugs that flew from the tall grass at night for the kids to catch. Despite the neighbors’ complaints, she loved it and would take us around the yard to show us what nature lived there. One day in her naturalistic way, after we kids complained for a snack, she showed us how to open the passion fruits off of the vine with our bare hands. 

I pluck a ripe fruit from the vine, and guided by memory and hunger I attempt to open it. I struggle at first, as my memory is hazy and my fingers slip from the fruit. I take a moment to collect myself before trying again, this time the fruit splits open into two halves full of yellow fruit. I scoop the fruit from one half and as it touches my tongue a sense of relief fills me. The uneasy worry that had stalked me all morning in the then strange woods began to swiftly dissipate. As I swallow, a sense of familiarity and peace I had never felt washes over me.

The crow, still looking at me, utters a questioning caw. He looks to the other half of the fruit, then back to me. Then he makes a small hop towards me and tilts his head as if to politely ask if I would share. My earlier anger towards him dissipates completely as the newfound calm overtakes me and owing the location of the fruit to him, I offer the other half. He eats it gleefully. I sit in the shadow of the oak next to the creek and eat my fill of fruit, of course sharing with my new friend.

I spend the day relaxing in the glen, listening to the now soothing bird song, watching the insects dance and squirrels chase each other over acorns. I smell the vibrant flowers, touch the smooth leaves, and put my feet in the cool creek. But after a day of leisure the crow swiftly flies to a tree at the edge of the glen and makes his beckoning caw, signaling that it is time to leave. Before I follow I open one last fruit, this time saving its seeds before I eat it.

After arriving home that day I plant the seeds along my trellis where I had futilely fought my friend over the English Ivy. Within a week, passion sprouts erupt from the earth, growing strong and fast. Their beautiful blooms bring hummingbirds and bees that had never visited my garden before. Seeing their success I  plant some Black-eyed Susans, followed by Red Columbines, Milkweed, and any other native plant I can find. By the end of the season my garden is bursting with life. As I relax in my chair in the shade, birds sing tunes accompanied by the rhythmic buzzing of the bees and dancing butterflies. Squirrels chitter along as they eat the seeds dropped by the flowers. Bunnies hop around in the evening and at night fireflies add a mystical blinking to the darkness. And, of course, through it all my friend the crow caws. My now living lawn brings me that same tranquility I found in the glen. Not a conquered silence but a shared symphony.

[leafisamenace]

Cliched Loneliness

it creeps in-

on one of those many normal nights

that becomes a lonely one.

now they all blend together

in their cliche moon light

yet you remember how

you loved them all

[leafisamenace]

Disenchanted

In a blissful field, I sit

Enjoying the day

Birds chirp their secret wit

And bugs dance as Fae

I begin to doze

In the sun’s embrace

Then a screeching engine chose

To turn beauty to waste.

The birds flee its chugging cry

The faeries all go off and hide

The land is left desolate

So one must ask why?

We have created a world

Where magic must die.

[leafisamenace]

10:55 PM on a work night

tear ducts damned

the basin of my sorrow 

fills

without release

the pressure builds 

condensing sadness

into numbness

lost in pain that 

becomes rage

never to flow

from my dry eyes

[leafisamenace]

A Chickadee's Feast

A beam of sun warms my black feather cap.  Closing my eyes, I let it seep into my skin and down to my skull as I relax on my perch. A chirping song swells within me, as I release it, the notes are etched into the sky with a twisting stream of steam. The frigid air that now surrounds me marks the end of a long season. My song is inspired by this sense of relief, taking on a relaxed legato. My chicks have grown and there is now only one person I must worry about feeding, myself. However there is a new challenge, the frost has driven away the succulent bugs I would gorge myself on during the spring. Despite this I am still at ease. I have no screeching peeps or lonely nights guarding the nest from a nearby branch. Now nights are spent nestled with my flock in a sturdy tree, filled with warmth and comradery as the winter night freezes the very air outside.

The hunger within me begins to outweigh the comfort of my sunny perch. I watch the ice melt off of branches around me, splashing onto the ground. I hear a loud sound and look over to the human’s den. A man emerges, hefting a large bag full of seeds. He walks to his stash, a hanging tube in the middle of his yard, and begins to fill it yet again. He hums a simple tune as he does so, which perplexes me. I cannot understand how he is so happy to fill his hoard of seeds as every few days it is reduced to nothing. It has no security or obfuscation, he does not even guard it. So unsurprisingly it is raided by every animal in the area until it is empty. I only try to take a little when I need to as I pity the poor human; although it doesn��t look like he is hungry. The hunger within me continues to swell to near starvation and as the man leaves, I see within the tube, my favorite food, black sunflower seeds. I decide I will take a few and then look for food elsewhere, use them to tide off starvation before finding my full meal.

Swooping from my perch I land on a fence post on the edge of the woods and the yard. I look at his seed tube and see I am not the only thief today. Cardinals, morning doves, and other chickadees were all faster than me, already feasting on the man’s treasure. Squirrels are eagerly waiting under the feast for any fallen seeds like a dog at a dinner table. I think I see a single open spot, an unoccupied small green perch next to an intimidatingly bright cardinal. I begin to muster my courage, spurred on by my hunger but I don’t find myself flying to the perch. Fear has shackled me to the fence and I consider giving up. Maybe I will get lucky and immediately find food in the words. Should I just go forage hungry? But then I see a black sunflower seed, gleaming in the sun, fall to the ground where the squirrels fight over it, and my hunger becomes unbearable. I launch into the air, locking onto the perch I begin to land, but the cardinal springs into action. He lunges at me with wings open wide and war cry blaring. I almost fall to the ground in shock. I recover and bolt through the air back to the fence. From my seat I watch the birds feast and occasionally fight. Not long after me, the other chickadee is chased off.

Suddenly, all of the birds flee into the woods. The man has returned. From the fence I feel that he is far away enough to be safe and remain, cautiously waiting. He is holding a steaming mug and takes a seat outside. Maybe he has finally decided to guard his seeds? After scratching his beard he takes a large sip from his mug and then looks towards the woods and to his seed stash. After sometime he shivers, shrugs, and then returns to the inside of his den. No bird has found the courage to return yet. This may be my moment.

Filled with determination I swoop onto an empty perch hastily pulling out every sunflower seed I see. A plethora of other seeds fall to the ground for the squirrels who have already returned. I swallow seeds greedily sating my starvation. Then the dreaded sound again pierces the silence, the man has emerged again. With my stolen bounty of a full stomach I flee hectically into the forest. I don’t look back as I fly into the woods but behind me I don't hear the man make chase or even yell - instead, I think I hear him chuckle.