Monday, September 28, 2015

The Call of the Crow

Dreaming Crow
14 x 11
acrylic on frosted mylar


From a single grain they have multiplied.
When you look in the eyes of one
you have seen them all. 

At the endges of highways
they pick at limp things.
They are anything but refined.

Or they fly out over the corn
like pellets of black fire,
like overlords.

Crow is crow, you say.
What else is there to say?
Drive down any road,

take a train or an airplane
across the world, leave
your old life behind,

die and be born again - 
wherever you arrive
they'll be there first,

glossy and rowdy
and indistinguishable.
The deep muscle of the world. 
                                           by Mary Oliver

Who else could so eloquently see crows in their majestic mystery? Their fire,their color, buried within. They seem to be a metaphor for life. They have been designed to barely be looked at. For most they are a noisy nuisance. And yet, Mary Oliver chose to immortalize them in a poem.  Makes me wonder, what else are we missing?

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