the wandering third

The crows are tossing themselves

recklessly in the random winds

of spring.

One friend has died, one disappeared

(for now, at least) leaving no address;

I've lost the whereabouts

of a wandering third. That seems to be,

this year, the nature of this season.

Is it a message about relinquishment?

--Denise Levertov.

Crow, who knew the colours, imagined blue to be the distance of the soul. Crow, wise to the seasons, thought of space as the absence of time.

A restless god had created crow restless in the idle hours. With His fingers he folded her destiny into that darkness, whispered her name, gently smoothing her feathers down with the blackest of Indian inks as he sharpened her tongue. The Kajol around her eyes would often smudge when she remembered.

Odd, even. She has large eyes, marked in black. And take her mouth. A wide mouth as pale as wax. It seems I am seeing everything more clearly. The details of a whole world are being opened up to me.

(--after James Salter).

But on the day of her departure a small fragment of blue glass fell into crow's eyes. And it was as if there was a whole world in that small speck of coloured dust. How crow loved to live in that blue world of hers!

But as time passed crow began to realise that her friends were disappearing one by one, and this began to weigh heavily on her heart. Many a man had tried to ensnare such a wondrous, strange creature-unique in all the world- capture her secret, but each time she would escape their nets -even if she sometimes enjoyed being bound, sometimes rested her head on their shoulders for human warmth, and even though she occasionally clawed her way into their hearts, softly craa'ed "now!" or "again !" into their ears in the early hours