dotintime
crow
I ought to be sad.
But instead I am enchanted by the arrow-like aim of the aerodynamic body with its Concorde-curved beak. And the black smoothness of the feathers that I can touch without touching. The caw-caw of the crow that I can hear without listening to its last call.
I am reminded of a tale by Dylan Thomas and find myself hoping that this crow will be laid to rest Under Milk Wood where…
It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Debra Broughton and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
