Swatting Flies

Yesterday the crow tried his best to ruin me.  I won’t say the nature of the spikes but they came from all angles.  They would have wedged themselves deep a year or so back but yesterday I knocked them aside like swatting flies.  It wasn’t pleasant. Every time I took control of one or shook it off, another was circling not too far away. These ruminations took between two and thirty minutes to disperse, certainly not the longest fights I’ve had, but the number of attacks was disturbing.  But how can I complain? Spikes used to last for days, weeks, months in the bad old days. Some of those old bastards stir in the deeper canyons even now – if a familiar trigger is pulled, or the Crow rustles his feathers a certain way.

I have a lot of time on my hands right now: yesterday was spent on the porch overlooking lush green islands in a gently rolling sea – nothing to distract me from that pecking black beak on my shoulder.  It was inevitable the Crow would attack, I was simply taken aback from the various memories and images he used – I guess he showed good imagination and creativity. Yet it is when I am looking forward to something that he caws the loudest, proving what a truly spiteful devil he is.  Whether it’s death related, or threatening violence, or little one running off with the milkman, or something someone said last month or a million years ago, it manifests in my mind a day before an anticipated event and spirals so rapidly out of control that the next day the spike is in so deep it’s practically nailing me to the ground.  No fucking good to anyone.

But yesterday was a good day.  Not because the crow came, but because I sent him so curtly on his way again.

 

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