A crows calls Cascade across the holy halls

conversing with the wind, the piercing noise crescendos across the deep black sky

Two more majestic, blackbirds cry out into the night one screams in agony the other cries, more peacefully what is going wrong what’s the omens of my life?

The winged beasts meet where the hills are high, and the fields are low nothing but grass and vastness surround them.

Fear settles in between their wings and the heavens. The sky seems to contort beholden to the animals below. The moon, stretched to shift the heavens.

It now reminds them of the springs.

Skies, so watery, bright blue light.

The moon is no longer.

The vastness replaced with the bright surrounding light, and the sun that seems forever away.

What a peaceful sort of day three crowing creatures, no longer covered by protections of the night in a field. Were all is bright.

They are completely open to the heavens. They are seen by all those things around them, all things surround them.

Are they a picture of praying creatures calling to the sky, needing answers from the place of being who sits high and looks low?

Or are they simply birds doing what they have always done; calling, crying, making meaningless noise into the openness, and the change in the wind? The change in the heavens was that merely of chance without consequence?

Or was it God opening up the skies to one of the smallest creatures? Where are their prayers heard? Or are they simply birds who mistook the midnight for early day? I guess we’ll never know. God watched as they flew away.

-The crows cascade written May 10