Crows and a Raven

I meet its beady, black little eye.

It is paralyzing. It is terrifying. It is decadent for my soul.

The crow chose me.

As I drive to buy cigarettes, or liquor, the crows appear. They watch me.

I believe they know me.

I got them tattooed without a thought as a teen- and yet, now, they are everywhere.

Mindlessly on my walls in pictures, in my tarot, in the painted faces of the rocks I collect.

They are everywhere. All knowing. All seeing. Trying to convey something to me I feel bone deep, but cannot understand.

When my grandmothers rat trap captures one, I mourn.

When I see one hurting, I ache.

When I do not see them, I feel the emptiness.

I believe they are apart of me, while others call them bad.

Bad omens, so they say. But that isn't always true. Sometimes they're good.

And they are good to me, watching and telling.

I greet them fondly when I pass by. They do not fly away like they do others.

They continue to exist. As do I, with a smile unbidden on my lips.

Yes- the crows and I. I try not to get too defensive when others desecrate the name.

But it feels like they desperate my soul. Sprinkle flowers and dance on my grave.

The crows would never.