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 |   Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
| Black feathers The Old Crow alighted on the rocks and spoke to us. "There's more to the color green than money, more fragrance in flowers than a pile of filthy old bills you exchange for rust-bucket toys. The sound of a babbling brook is musical in more ways than words of hate and vengeance ever will be. We listened in silence. Crows remember, and aren't beyond retaliation themselves. Silence seemed safer. "You say nothing and do less. Neither acquiescence nor apathy will save you." The wind picked up in hopes of ruffling our feathers. We wrapped our ignorance tighter around us to protect us from the storm that was surely coming. "You arise from dust and return as such but forget to stay grounded while alive. You will die soon enough." We shifted sore butts in hope... "There is no hope in avoiding suffering, only the courage to accept and let go." We stared at the gathering clouds. "You cannot wish away the rain without condemning others to a flood, nor wish for sun without starvation and drought." It was as if our thoughts were being read. "I'm not a mind-reader; but, I have countless seasons of experience. I've also listened to the wisdom of generations of my kind. We hold onto knowledge in our collective memory." Old Crow arose and stood before us, giving each one a black feather as the storm broke in a rush of wind and hail, leaving us with but a word. "Remember." © Kåre Enga (8.april.2025) [182.18] ~250 wc 65.543 |
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