Selected piece from Somewhere Past Gum Creek

Dialogue With A Preacher Crow

(Note to the reader: There is a rare, invented species of American Black Crow that has a narrow white band of feathers near the neckline. This white band or collar resembles a reverend or priest’s collar. And given the crow’s habits of perching on balcony railings and porches, the “preacher crow” was an easy name.)

The preacher crow, standing firmly atop a picketed railing let out a shrill “Caw,” echoing the length of the tree-lined street.

A woman walking by stopped and stared up at the crow. “Why do you caw so loudly on such a quiet street, preacher crow?” She asked.

“It is the nature of my species to announce what I see. It is your perception to the loudness of announcement and the quietness of your street,” the crow replied.

“Well, well. If you can speak, why not speak rather than caw? She questioned.

“Speaking involves reflection, empathy and judgment. None of these traits are in my possession,” said the crow.

“Then why are you called a “preacher” crow? Surely you must have a message?” The woman goaded the crow.

“I am merely a crow. It was your species that labeled me a “preacher.” Perhaps you’re worried that a message has already been delivered?” the crow suggested.

“Worried? What could I possibly be worried about?” said the woman.

“Well, you’re talking to a crow. This should worry you for a while,” the crow summed up, as he lifted off the railing into the brilliant sky.

Selected piece from Somewhere Past Gum Creek

Waves

Waves green and cobalt crash ashore on cue, taking turns to impress; a polite bow gives way to the next, inviting them to top their performance. How polite the waves appear. 

Whitecaps appear. Randomly, suddenly, like children, like prairie dogs peeking above the crests, hoping to catch a glimpse into the future. Reminiscent of a rogue corn stalk in one thousand acres—that one stalk takes a stand to stand above—a fresh view, a new perspective to their current occupation of space and time. Its only risk? Enlightenment.

The more I stand in the sand, more questions arise….

Morning sprinkles her glitter across the horizon’s waters; only a distant ship’s crew gain firsthand witness to the shimmering views, while shore men wonder if the water is sweet and clear. Are the sparkles sharp or flexible? Are the risks to raise their sails worth the price of the journey? 

Do waves take turns? Is there a protocol—a hierarchy of wave order; a ritual and cadence only they obey? And if so and if I knew there were such an order, would I know enough to see it in play? Would I care? Would my eyes discern the patterns, this logic in wave routine?

Where do waves go once their performance at shore is complete? I see them vanish before me, a spray of foam and mist. Poof—the arch, the crest, the tube, the whitecap dissolves before my eyes into a glorious whoosh, gone. 

Come evening, do the stars dip their points in the ocean, swirling to test the temperature? Concentric circles broadcast ripples, evidence of their impossible urge of resisting to touch the water where men have yet to travel.

All this time the shore braces for wave impact. Sand absorbs the steady thrust of energy and force, ever so delicate a balance of velocity, stability. Rocks and plants, trees and walls share the workload offering the sand a reprieve, quiet encouragement to stay the course.

Waves too, take heart, backing off from their natural affinity to come ashore. Winds soften, tides recede, moons align, ice contains, gravity conforms. Only now the shores can repair themselves, recover, rebuild, gather energy and knowledge to stand again as a sentinel—the first line meeting at waters edge.

As I stand along the shore, I feel both a calm and a danger. The sea’s presence and all of her aura, give me a sense of space, a sense of place, a sense of wonder. And, I feel overwhelmed, overmatched and overpowered for the ocean’s ability to take me out with one swoop of wave. One misstep of judgment in stepping too close the dangerous current and power, I will vanish into the sea. Yet in all of this, I would rather stand here by the sea. With all the drama and danger; with all the unknown and unchartered, my appetite for the risk here is grander than other places in nature’s catalogue. I am drawn to this more than to the sea’s cousins in nature.

In the presence of the sea, I can converse with the past explorers’ spirits. I can hear their voices, feel their desires to travel beyond. I can gain insight to what they deeply must have known would be their destiny, even their demise. Both worth the price they would pay.

For now, I can only wonder, I can only imagine what lies beyond those places that for now only stars and satellites will visit. For now, they are my eyes and ears to the new frontier above me; to those ideas that exist where beams of light go to hide—where darkness becomes the new light. To those places beyond the water’s deepest caverns, to the galaxies that thrive, I hold hope to exploring in one form or another.

With feet dug deep in this shore, on this night, I will soon retire for the evening, a different person. My spirit renewed. My soul rejuvenated. My gratitude extending beyond my skin and bones. The salt spray tightens my face, I lick my lips and taste what I watch so intensely.

And a message to satellites weaving within the stars chasing galaxies far away: my hand has let go of your leash.