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The sun rose early over the pond this morning, it's sudden light reflected off the waters surface and through the blinds into my room. Unable to stave off natures instinct to such an occurrence, I awoke and stared out into the still morn, the few ducks that have yet to fly south plodded about in search of their daily sustenance. A solitary crane demanded wide berth from his fellow feathered fouls as he dipped his slender beak through reeds and mire.
Ripples diminished rapidly in the chill water, giving it the appearance of silvered glass and mirroring, nigh to perfect, the oaks and aspens beyond its bank.
A raven flew in from somewhere behind my viewpoint and circled, briefly, a lone patch of earth near the center of the pond before landing on the muddy mound. The curious bird patted with its foot all around the island. I was reminded of River Dance, with the many dancers all in a line, stamping and stomping in rhythm. Right at the moment where I thought the raven was about to do whatever its strange dance had preceded, an entire murder of the black birds swooped in. Whatever the original intentions of the first raven were, I'll never know, for no sooner had the murder arrived than he took flight, an angry Caw escaping his beak before he fluttered away.
The stymied murder flocked around, hopping too and fro in their agitation at not understanding what the first had so clearly understood. Yet the island would not reveal its secrets to them and eventually they left it for some scrap of garbage blowing through the trees on the bank opposite.
I waited for the first raven to return, hoping to learn what it was that he had sought, and what it was that the other ravens had so jealously coveted for themselves. Alas, I waited in vain. The sun reached fully into the sky and as it did so the pond lost its reflective qualities. Ripples were no longer muted and the ducks, with their natural camouflage, melted away into the dull browns and grays of winter.
The moment of wonder was broken and I had nothing left to do but to get ready for the day, musing on how little magic there was left in our world, and mourning the loss of it.
Ripples diminished rapidly in the chill water, giving it the appearance of silvered glass and mirroring, nigh to perfect, the oaks and aspens beyond its bank.
A raven flew in from somewhere behind my viewpoint and circled, briefly, a lone patch of earth near the center of the pond before landing on the muddy mound. The curious bird patted with its foot all around the island. I was reminded of River Dance, with the many dancers all in a line, stamping and stomping in rhythm. Right at the moment where I thought the raven was about to do whatever its strange dance had preceded, an entire murder of the black birds swooped in. Whatever the original intentions of the first raven were, I'll never know, for no sooner had the murder arrived than he took flight, an angry Caw escaping his beak before he fluttered away.
The stymied murder flocked around, hopping too and fro in their agitation at not understanding what the first had so clearly understood. Yet the island would not reveal its secrets to them and eventually they left it for some scrap of garbage blowing through the trees on the bank opposite.
I waited for the first raven to return, hoping to learn what it was that he had sought, and what it was that the other ravens had so jealously coveted for themselves. Alas, I waited in vain. The sun reached fully into the sky and as it did so the pond lost its reflective qualities. Ripples were no longer muted and the ducks, with their natural camouflage, melted away into the dull browns and grays of winter.
The moment of wonder was broken and I had nothing left to do but to get ready for the day, musing on how little magic there was left in our world, and mourning the loss of it.
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