the red and the black

the search for Truth is not easy, especially if one is not searching, or know what the Truth is.

early morning light seeps in. grey and cold objects still finding their Form, their outlines first. A crow falls, falls, swoops down from a height like a thick blanket. why outside my home, and no other? craas blindly against the emptiness of the universe, as if hearing his own voice, awakened to his own ugliness, he could discover his unique soul.

but crow spoke. and you thought of him, was in your mind somewhere; then, by hand and red ink made his way to a blank page of your notebook. no, not blank. scrawled in black are the words: just as it is, unmisted by love. from there-after a suitable elapse of time for breakfast-he, somehow, miraculously, jumps to your computer screen and this blog...reassembled, digitally. and now, i suppose, you read of him too and, despite yourself, think of him (or me), imagine how that ugly craa sounded.

for a second he's lodged in your mind. an image forms, grey at first but bryter, clearer later. this dead crow who's made such a fantastical journey already. not all crows, crows did not fall like the snow, generally, just this particular early-morning one, the one that fell from the sky.

and then you clear your throat, your tongue loosens, moistens, and your lips move unconsciously. you whisper his name to yourself, ever-so-gently, like breath on a dark mirror.

if only the reverse were true! then I, standing upright, would write of you truly, speak to crow, find my Form, so that in a flash you would fall by my side and i would hear the beautiful craaing of your voice unfurling against the emptiness of the universe.