Sunday, January 29, 2017


A Crow in the Furrow of Sorrow


Morning crow, sorrow!
Corbeau du matin, chagrin!

A small short story that tells one day in the life of three black brother crows or maybe ravens or maybe blackbird, who knows, crows they are called but they have other names that are funny in a way? Magnus, Korvern and Septimius. And what’s more for us they go Cra! Cra! Cra! But in fact they seem to be able to communicate and to speak and think and have ideas about everything in the world, about humans and about dogs, and some other things of the sort.

Strangely enough they have their own theory about the world and how it does not go, even about its economy as if they had been fervent students in some university. Definitely these three black crow remind me of Shakespeare and his three weird sisters, though here we have three weird brothers. And then their hatred for the local stray cat brings to my mind an old film, Fritz the Cat, a long tailed cat who had great problems with black crows in another city that may have been New York. So they become like some plotters trainspotting in the air, some underground homeless and forlorn scavengers in our society living on rejects, trash and garbage?

At times they find a juicy dead body they can eat as if it were Christmas or Thanksgiving delicatessen or Easter Passover goodies or Ramadan evening nourishment. I suppose they satisfy their visionary hunger with the two globes of the eyes of the corpse, and yet they do not go further to some other parts that are juicy and rich in a body, alive or not, like the liver, the pancreas, if they can get to them, though they will never be able to break the shell of the egg of the brain, the cranium, the skull.

It is true they don’t need to eat human brain to be clever because they are naturally, and more than humans, because they know they have to respect nature, to clean it up of its garbage, though they could be thousands and they would not be able to come to the end of human trash, both the trash they drop everywhere or the trash they pull around them in the shape of dogs or cats, and even a third type which is humans themselves who are the governing trashy kings of this planet they don’t even deserve.

It is somewhat funny and somewhat strange, bizarre, surprising, and maybe too short since they sleep at night, well, so you say man, because birds always sleep with one eye tight open and the other wide shut since cats are nocturnal animals too, not to speak of bats and other night time predators. But birds have a very great sense of hierarchy; I was watching just this afternoon and yesterday the birds who come to my yard to take advantage of the bird-feeders Lucretia garnishes with all kinds of goodies. There is a band of blackbirds, males and females, five or six, maybe more and among them one macho male. When the black birds are there all the other little birds of half a dozen types have to literally fight to get to the food. The black birds are a perfect band of SS officers keeping their spoils of war. And this afternoon only the macho male was there and no one else could get close to the grains, seeds, peanuts, or whatever. He was pacing the yard and the snow with the authority of a Trump signing executive orders banning everyone from his own little White House lawn and rose garden.

Who said nature was just, peaceful, equalitarian, gentle, sweet? Ah! Ah! It is some kind of an inferno and humans are nearly just slightly more civilized than that, well maybe, perhaps, for sure but not quite sure.

So be careful the Men In Black are coming and you better be ready to be extra-terrestrialized if you don’t like the color. I know one President and one Prime Minister who have to be extra-terrestrialized as an urgent emergency and sent to intensive care in some NHS hospital (though that one could come to France and as a European citizen she could get some free treatment in some luxurious Paris hospital like La Salpetriere built by Louis XIV), or some community hospital for the homeless in New York (for the other member of the pair that should be married urgently too before being moved to these medical reclusive retreats). But I will not tell names. I am not a rat, a cat maybe, a crow why not, but Serban made me smile with his birdlike human realism, and there sure are a lot of human beings in the street or in the bureaucratic offices we have forgotten to bury last time the hearse went by down in the street.


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