Crows
(for Jane)
They come over the rooftops and circle above the square... by the dozen, and I am amazed at the sight, though I could hear them call from blocks away. They fill the branches of the bare oak trees around the courthouse... and raise a racket.
The beautiful, moving black forms against the blue-grey sky... illuminated from below by the pink-to-orange of the mercury vapor lights on the tall poles, and the white-to-blue of the twin-globed halogen lamps 7 ft. above the sidewalk.
Above the busy streets of a city that has outgrown itself... as they always come, as the harbinger of doom. No mere omen of some never-to-come apocalypse... somehow always delayed no matter how much we long for it. No, they come... rather, they are always there, but unseen, until the moment is right... we know it in our hearts... the end is a process... they are here to reveal to us that which we already know, but will not face, that which we will not allow ourselves to know: our time here is not long. We leave little but waste in our wake. It is telling and it is proper that those who bring the message of our end also feed on our garbage. It is an act of transformation: recycling on a metaphysical plane.
Crows are in the gutter, scratching and pecking at some bit of refuse... a shard of wet newspaper that clings to my damp pant-leg bears the latest news of the eclipse of humanity... the crow just laughs, in his way, at my show of concern.
I imagine them... in the days to come... atop the abandoned houses in once-new subdivisions... as their ancestors sat amidst the ruins of Rome. They persist, in our midst, their song barely heard above the din of our self-congratulatory noise. The traffic rushes on, unceasing, as it must… until it ends. And they do not care. They fill the sky, by the hundreds... and can blacken out the sun, if it deigns to shine. Rooftops are as good as treetops to them, do you not understand? Stop for a moment, lean in close, they have a secret to tell you. But, everything they say is a lie... it turns back on itself: a labyrinth, with no exit. It is not what it is, nor is it its opposite. Dig in, see if you can figure it out... take what time you have and puzzle over it awhile, get lost in the labyrinth: Why not?
They will still be here tomorrow.
-Charles Cannon
Front Porch Music
4 January 2001
They come over the rooftops and circle above the square... by the dozen, and I am amazed at the sight, though I could hear them call from blocks away. They fill the branches of the bare oak trees around the courthouse... and raise a racket.
The beautiful, moving black forms against the blue-grey sky... illuminated from below by the pink-to-orange of the mercury vapor lights on the tall poles, and the white-to-blue of the twin-globed halogen lamps 7 ft. above the sidewalk.
Above the busy streets of a city that has outgrown itself... as they always come, as the harbinger of doom. No mere omen of some never-to-come apocalypse... somehow always delayed no matter how much we long for it. No, they come... rather, they are always there, but unseen, until the moment is right... we know it in our hearts... the end is a process... they are here to reveal to us that which we already know, but will not face, that which we will not allow ourselves to know: our time here is not long. We leave little but waste in our wake. It is telling and it is proper that those who bring the message of our end also feed on our garbage. It is an act of transformation: recycling on a metaphysical plane.
Crows are in the gutter, scratching and pecking at some bit of refuse... a shard of wet newspaper that clings to my damp pant-leg bears the latest news of the eclipse of humanity... the crow just laughs, in his way, at my show of concern.
I imagine them... in the days to come... atop the abandoned houses in once-new subdivisions... as their ancestors sat amidst the ruins of Rome. They persist, in our midst, their song barely heard above the din of our self-congratulatory noise. The traffic rushes on, unceasing, as it must… until it ends. And they do not care. They fill the sky, by the hundreds... and can blacken out the sun, if it deigns to shine. Rooftops are as good as treetops to them, do you not understand? Stop for a moment, lean in close, they have a secret to tell you. But, everything they say is a lie... it turns back on itself: a labyrinth, with no exit. It is not what it is, nor is it its opposite. Dig in, see if you can figure it out... take what time you have and puzzle over it awhile, get lost in the labyrinth: Why not?
They will still be here tomorrow.
-Charles Cannon
Front Porch Music
4 January 2001