WHO INVENTED DEATH AND CROWS AND IS THERE ANYTHING WE CAN DO TO CALM THE NOISY CLATTER OF DESTRUCTION?
What a hard year. We’re all dying, even that crow talking loud and kicking up snow.
Maybe he thinks he can head it off with a little noise, a fight. Or his silver-colored soul just wants some attention in his feathered suit.
That’s what I Iike about crows. Decorum has another shape. They aren’t afraid to argue about the inarguable.
We fly into the body and we fly out, changed by the sun, by crows who manipulate the borders of reason.
Of course it’s not that easy, and I’m circumventing the matter as I marvel at the sun sleeping in the snow—
the talk of crows getting in the way of poetry. I have a question for my soul, a creature who has little patience with crows—and less with snow.
This question grows new leaves with each hard rain yet bends with grief at loss in the cold.
This morning the question gleams with particles of the sun. There’s crying, there’s laughter.
What do you make of it?
Joy Harjo, The Woman Who Fell From The Sky