The Confused Crow

Did you ever walk among trees filled with noisy crows calling and crying out? You did? Great! (here’s an explanation for that).

A crow’s life is a living protest; their claim that nothing is fair makes crows caw and shriek in birdy outrage. Sited high in trees, (above your reproach) these neglected infants, cry out in frustration and despair. They DEMAND world order, insisting that everyone is made to go back to the beginning, so that the rules can be reinstated. Of course no one grasps their message (crow calling is a language understood only by crows themselves).

What they don’t know, because no one told them (and actually who knew?) is that there aren’t any rules. Only made up stuff that some agree to, and some don’t. Rules like ‘be good’ or ‘be sensible’, (then worse) ‘be somebody’ or ‘work hard’. Beneath these scriptures, men labor like drones and women become followers of the common fashion, toiling within structures of a certain way of thinking. Or a way of doing things that keeps everything the same. Seeing conventional people comply satisfies and pleases the crows and, after tilting their heads, they nod and grow quiet.
However in other places, people swim free. Unnoticed, they slip through a hole in the net, then drift through uncharted waters feeling disturbed, perhaps by the absence of structure. Detached from the system, they have not rules, only questions, like ‘how do I find happy?’ or ‘what does my heart say?’ From their roosts, the crows screech like harpies and throw leaves and twigs. Not only are the rules being ignored, some are making up their own (in full view).
In a murder, they gather to plot, threaten and curse.

Except one small bird, who, watching feels confused; as if the apparent solidness of the situation did wobble then slip? A notion arrives which presses more than the job of the mob. The crow rattles its body and fluffs sundry feathers. Along the branch, another crow watches, blinks and leans their head to one side. The confused crow shifts sideways and lifts a claw. Still the crow-notion persists, like a murmur on the wind:
Ignoring the potential stutter and fall, and oh! the shame of the drop – maybe it’s time for a solo flight?

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