Twenty-seven crows exploded in cacophanous screaming caws from the walnut tree, needing no shadows, black holes punched in the fair soft blue. I watched them as they chased the red hawk high and low through the glinting sunlight, shining blue on the crows and gold on the hawk, one crow after another swooping in to tag the hawk, tumbling in the air, a twisting and turning of feathers and talons and beaks. I watched the great cloud chase through tree branches, over rooftops, through telephone wires, the hawk desperate for escape and the crows intent on destruction.
They carved spirals in the sky and fell back through, they beat their wings hard, tails fanned and twisting, caws incessant and claws extended. The hawk feinted, buckled, switched, swept and turned, and once it gained altitude in the tumultuous crowd, it tucked its wings and dove hard towards the ground. Some crows gave chase but could not match the red blur. A flick of the wings and it was gone into a shaded yard, hunting for an easier meal.
What reason. Reasoning. We reason our own beliefs into validity. We follow that hawk across the sky quick as we can and still we lose ourselves. It is great vanity to believe the answers are simple, like there's some amazing rubric or key or pattern without variables or free radicals or hawks and crows.
It comes on quick and we make it last as long as we can but impermanance is the only certainty. Entropy drags at everything, not unkind, only aloof and incomprehensible. Some energy is lost with each setting sun, with each feather plucked, but energy becomes redirected, changed. When we consider death we cannot fathom the enormous cycle that spins, we only see the absence of motion, the lack of life as we once knew it. The blood is spilt, the body lies first limp, then rigid like the middle of night. I have seen death, have felt the passing of breath into the air in one last sigh, a release, a return, some unequalled and unrecognized freedom.
Belief requires a leap of faith to fly. Sometimes it is chased and hunted, sometimes it falls. It does not always catch itself. I cannot say, nor can I reasonably explain, where it comes from or where it goes.
They carved spirals in the sky and fell back through, they beat their wings hard, tails fanned and twisting, caws incessant and claws extended. The hawk feinted, buckled, switched, swept and turned, and once it gained altitude in the tumultuous crowd, it tucked its wings and dove hard towards the ground. Some crows gave chase but could not match the red blur. A flick of the wings and it was gone into a shaded yard, hunting for an easier meal.
What reason. Reasoning. We reason our own beliefs into validity. We follow that hawk across the sky quick as we can and still we lose ourselves. It is great vanity to believe the answers are simple, like there's some amazing rubric or key or pattern without variables or free radicals or hawks and crows.
It comes on quick and we make it last as long as we can but impermanance is the only certainty. Entropy drags at everything, not unkind, only aloof and incomprehensible. Some energy is lost with each setting sun, with each feather plucked, but energy becomes redirected, changed. When we consider death we cannot fathom the enormous cycle that spins, we only see the absence of motion, the lack of life as we once knew it. The blood is spilt, the body lies first limp, then rigid like the middle of night. I have seen death, have felt the passing of breath into the air in one last sigh, a release, a return, some unequalled and unrecognized freedom.
Belief requires a leap of faith to fly. Sometimes it is chased and hunted, sometimes it falls. It does not always catch itself. I cannot say, nor can I reasonably explain, where it comes from or where it goes.
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