07-26-2016, 11:42 PM
I sleep, a soft cocoon of snow blanketing my blued frame. Wings drape over like a dead brides gown, splayed in an abnormal fashion across my resting body. I know the crows have me surrounded; they come at the crack of dawn, they always do. As if little guardian angels have taken possession of their bodies, they now follow me without fail. Loud, obnoxious and deafening; sometimes I pretend it is mother.
Mother. Mom. That one. The pretty one. She had tragically passed but not to fear, for she is guarding over my awkward and lanky two year old body from beyond the grave in the form of a crow. Other times I pretend they just aren’t there, and pray to God one morning I will awake from a brief sleep only to see they have dissipated into the abyss.
My front left leg reaches forward, talons scratching into the freshly laid snow feeling the cold stone turf beneath, before the other follows suit. My shoulders roll forward and all my body to rise.
Water melted from the night before now clings to my feathers in the form of tiny shards of ice. It annoys me, the sudden weight that isn’t normally there. My jaw tenses and my eyes seem to ignite, my blood coiling up in my throat and the feeling of aggravation boiling up in the pit of my stomach.
The fuse of my irritation is quickly diffused at the loud bellow of a crow cawing out into the sky, a sight I cannot see from ground level. It then turns back at me, analyzing my abstract frame with feathered features, large wings, talons, and a brightened orange nose. It sees me like the freak I believe myself to be, I know this. I can feel it.
That is why they left me. I am beyond their scope.
I flutter my wings down, attempting to shake off the nuisance of ice before meandering through the forest, elegantly gliding between bark and twigs. I am young, my sunken hind quarters and indented ribs prove so. My lanky legs and uneven mane shows.
The break of the treeline exposes my position, the sun rising and pegging light along where I stand, illuminating every blue roaned feather and allowing my wings to cast shadows of blackness.
Mother. Mom. That one. The pretty one. She had tragically passed but not to fear, for she is guarding over my awkward and lanky two year old body from beyond the grave in the form of a crow. Other times I pretend they just aren’t there, and pray to God one morning I will awake from a brief sleep only to see they have dissipated into the abyss.
My front left leg reaches forward, talons scratching into the freshly laid snow feeling the cold stone turf beneath, before the other follows suit. My shoulders roll forward and all my body to rise.
Water melted from the night before now clings to my feathers in the form of tiny shards of ice. It annoys me, the sudden weight that isn’t normally there. My jaw tenses and my eyes seem to ignite, my blood coiling up in my throat and the feeling of aggravation boiling up in the pit of my stomach.
The fuse of my irritation is quickly diffused at the loud bellow of a crow cawing out into the sky, a sight I cannot see from ground level. It then turns back at me, analyzing my abstract frame with feathered features, large wings, talons, and a brightened orange nose. It sees me like the freak I believe myself to be, I know this. I can feel it.
That is why they left me. I am beyond their scope.
I flutter my wings down, attempting to shake off the nuisance of ice before meandering through the forest, elegantly gliding between bark and twigs. I am young, my sunken hind quarters and indented ribs prove so. My lanky legs and uneven mane shows.
The break of the treeline exposes my position, the sun rising and pegging light along where I stand, illuminating every blue roaned feather and allowing my wings to cast shadows of blackness.
B r i n e