I chatted with a crow today.
He sat high up in a pine tree,
cawing like he had something pressing to say,
meant just for me.
I didn’t know what he wanted,
But he persisted,
hopping down the branches,
closing the distance
like his urgency was heavy
And he needed to set it down at my feet.
I kept wondering
If he was a messenger,
the kind that shows up
when life is shifting under your shoes
And you haven’t quite admitted it yet.
He called,
I listened,
or tried to,
and then he flew off,
leaving the air strangely full,
as if the message still hung there
waiting for me to claim it.
And maybe that’s the lesson:
not every message arrives in words,
Not every truth is handed to you clean.
Sometimes it’s a crow insisting you pay attention,
reminding you that your life is speaking
even when you don’t understand the language.
I’m still wondering if he thought I heard him.
But I’m listening now,
to him,
to myself,
to whatever tries to reach me
from the branches above.
wcd
