Crows and Things
Today I went to Jewelandia to walk around, like I do. I walked around my field, which had a big fat construction vehicle in the middle of it (um yellow, with a big scoopy claw? Any five-year-old boy would know what this is called. It's escaped me.) Anyway, I'm all cozy wearing double plaid and a big fat mustard yellow rose that I've pinned onto my jacket (I think I posted a picture of it in my last post), and I'm listening to The Civil Wars. And then I go up to the logs I like to sit on, but they've all been moved like, ten feet forward. Where they once sat is just mud and a an empty soda can, and a few crushed snail shells. It is odd but I'm not too bothered by it, because honestly there's straw all over the place and they chopped down a bunch of trees and the place looks different every time I come but it doesn't really eat me. I go and stand up on the displaced logs, take my earphones out and look around.
I notice some crows are flying up into the tree above me, cawing obnoxiously. I watch them for a while, and see that more and more and more are coming, flying in from outside the park, I can see them swooping through the gate and flying from tree to tree until there are a hundred or more up above me, screeching away. It's weird, I tell you. I'm starting to wonder if someone's dragged a dead body into the foliage across the path, and so after a minute or two of staring up into the horrible mass of angry crows, I turn to leave the park. But not without a smile. I decide that maybe the dead thing is me, the old me that used to come here and sit on these logs and think about the futility of life and whatever my sad little 16-year-old head decided was worth thinking about. It always made me feel infinitely worse and better all at once. But now? Now I am 18 and I am done sitting around feeling sorry for myself for no reason. So goodnight and goodbye to the part of me that died today, mourned by a procession of big black crows.
As I leave, I hear the sound loudly still, but after a while it's weird because they've all flown out the gate and into a tree that I've just passed, and then they flew into the next tree, I mean honestly I'm not making this up they followed me all the way down the street, cawing. They didn't leave me alone until I reached the end of the street and turned down the main road, turning up my music louder and skipping away as fast as I could. A hundred loud-mouth crows.
A new year starts tomorrow. A Phoenix burst into flame and a brilliant new bird is going to come out at midnight tonight. See, it's making me wax poetic. Stupid crows. They know something's going to be different.
I notice some crows are flying up into the tree above me, cawing obnoxiously. I watch them for a while, and see that more and more and more are coming, flying in from outside the park, I can see them swooping through the gate and flying from tree to tree until there are a hundred or more up above me, screeching away. It's weird, I tell you. I'm starting to wonder if someone's dragged a dead body into the foliage across the path, and so after a minute or two of staring up into the horrible mass of angry crows, I turn to leave the park. But not without a smile. I decide that maybe the dead thing is me, the old me that used to come here and sit on these logs and think about the futility of life and whatever my sad little 16-year-old head decided was worth thinking about. It always made me feel infinitely worse and better all at once. But now? Now I am 18 and I am done sitting around feeling sorry for myself for no reason. So goodnight and goodbye to the part of me that died today, mourned by a procession of big black crows.
As I leave, I hear the sound loudly still, but after a while it's weird because they've all flown out the gate and into a tree that I've just passed, and then they flew into the next tree, I mean honestly I'm not making this up they followed me all the way down the street, cawing. They didn't leave me alone until I reached the end of the street and turned down the main road, turning up my music louder and skipping away as fast as I could. A hundred loud-mouth crows.
A new year starts tomorrow. A Phoenix burst into flame and a brilliant new bird is going to come out at midnight tonight. See, it's making me wax poetic. Stupid crows. They know something's going to be different.
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