pseudonymous
Obtuse Kineticist
Crow Tale
I remember sitting on the docks one day several summers ago on an island off the coast of Maine, where my family hails from. I was busy watching this crow working at some road kill. I have always loved crows, and have found their personalities entertaining.
After some time a big seagull comes along and drives this crow away. He flies up to the top of a telephone pole, and agitatingly offers a long speech about first come, first serve etiquette. Finally he flew off, and I resigned myself to watching the seagull.
A few minutes later, the crow returns to the telephone wires above the seagull, and begins to pace over top of the other bird, making some sort of mathematical equation in its head. When it was satisfied with its conclusions, it flies off again. That was peculiar, I remember thinking.
The crow soon returns with a soda can in its beak, and after some slight adjustments in its place on the telephone wire, it drops the can, which hits the seagull squarely on the head. The seagull flies away thinking it is being attacked by the Pepsi Corporation, and the crow leisurely spirals down in a graceful wing spread, lands by the road kill, and after a few George Jefferson type struts, resumes its pickings.
To this day, I have never seen a human act in such a mastery manner, and I acknowledge this crow's very adeptness here in this short piece. What do crows and poets have in common? They both know they are cool.
©2003 DC Vision
I remember sitting on the docks one day several summers ago on an island off the coast of Maine, where my family hails from. I was busy watching this crow working at some road kill. I have always loved crows, and have found their personalities entertaining.
After some time a big seagull comes along and drives this crow away. He flies up to the top of a telephone pole, and agitatingly offers a long speech about first come, first serve etiquette. Finally he flew off, and I resigned myself to watching the seagull.
A few minutes later, the crow returns to the telephone wires above the seagull, and begins to pace over top of the other bird, making some sort of mathematical equation in its head. When it was satisfied with its conclusions, it flies off again. That was peculiar, I remember thinking.
The crow soon returns with a soda can in its beak, and after some slight adjustments in its place on the telephone wire, it drops the can, which hits the seagull squarely on the head. The seagull flies away thinking it is being attacked by the Pepsi Corporation, and the crow leisurely spirals down in a graceful wing spread, lands by the road kill, and after a few George Jefferson type struts, resumes its pickings.
To this day, I have never seen a human act in such a mastery manner, and I acknowledge this crow's very adeptness here in this short piece. What do crows and poets have in common? They both know they are cool.
©2003 DC Vision
