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My mornings are for me, those first private breaths between waking and sleep. I want the silence, not the questions. I want the comforting murk of the day yet not arrived. People are not allowed here. This land so foreign to many is mine.
But things must be done. Money must be made. So I fall into step behind the giantess of routine. Before long I am out the door, presentable to the world, albeit unwillingly. My little tin can on wheels provides some protection from intrusion, even though she betrays me by conveying me to the reality of The Office, with its politics, lengthy emails, calls that simply must be returned and the haranguing tones of Indra at the Monday morning check in stroke meeting.
But I ain’t listening to that, nor am I thinking about it. My awareness is on the empty road ahead. The November hedges, so stark, so skeletal. I wonder about the birds and where they will go now they have fallen out of favour with mother nature; how will they fare? Those tiny beating hearts wrapped up in a thousand miniscule feathers. They cannot store up supplies for winter. And nature has fooled them into apathy with autumn’s bounty and the closing stages of summer. Elderberries of cocaine, blackberries of MDMA. All very abundant until the supply is cut. What then? What folly it is to rely on anything at all. Poor birds. Infact, poor everything.
For a moment my heart is a bead threaded on a string.
Everything is an abundance of grey. My lights shine on, piercing the fog. It’s cold. I do not mind. Except for the others.
Even the grass is a soft green grey. Beaded with water. Bestowed by phantoms of the night. Beyond the scope of wooden fences, mist shrouded, almost gone from sight, wooly bottoms tremble, legs half heartedly trot. Steam rises from broad damp backs. If I listen hard above the purr of the engine, I can hear a faint bleat here and there. Before long, some will have lambs. Scraps of life, torn without reason from the primal codes placed within us all. Are they cherishing this morning too? I cannot help but leak my secret smile. My Grandma taught me this.
I can feel her here.
Mornings were her kingdom too.
My little hand in hers, negotiating the cattle grid. That scary mouth of metal, waiting to swallow me, or my new shoes up. But we made it. Shoes intact. Over and over. Every time. My little Grandma, so petite, so comforting. Reckless, brave, so full of life. Arthritic hands that taught mine to find good burning twigs to start fires in the hearth. Those hands made toast as flames crackled, smoothed the tangles from my hair, reassured, made blossom things that never should have made it. I sense her in these mornings although she is long gone.
She is here.
I sense many things, often. Sometimes places, sometimes people. Sometimes memories or echoes.
I’m approaching one now.
Muckamore.
It’s in a dip. Not even a village really. A hamlet. A collection of houses. An old ruin of an Abbey, a graveyard, a wall but oh my God does it have a massive aurora. It does not matter how engrossed I am in other thoughts or by songs on the radio or whatever, the moment I enter the dip to Muckamore I am jolted. Something throws cold water on me.
I feel a reverence I can’t explain. A wish to go back in time and see it as was.
A hopeless longing.
For sight.
This morning is no different.
Only something clearly heard me this time.
But it is not to my desire. This is not a throwback or a harkening to a bygone era. I scarcely know what to describe it as or how to define it without seeming mad.
I’m breathing deeply as I strive to say.
Just before the bridge, where the river flows, betwixt the old Abbey wall and a rolling meadow, my eye is always drawn to this spot. I never see anything besides grass or mist. Which I see both of today.
I also see something else.
A perfect circle of black crows. In the center is another crow.
My view of it is fleeting. Shocked from the first glance, I look again. There is no denying it.
It might as well be a perfect circle of aliens.
My morning is shattered.
As soon as I can, I pull in. This takes about five minutes.
What have I seen? It’s not normal. Animals do not do that. And I know animals.
My life is stressful right now. Have I lost it?
I consult the Google gods.
And there it is.
What I’ve just seen is rare as fuck.
It’s a crow court.
I had been wondering about the birds and the approaching winter and now nature has let me peep behind the curtain.
So crows belong to the Corvid family, which I already knew. I was aware they are extremely intelligent, possessing problem solving skills and tool use abilities. I did not however for one minute believe they might have anything approaching a justice system.
That’s what a crow court is. An offending crow (usually one that has taken a mate, food or territory not belonging to it) will be encircled by its peers. A verbal interaction follows by the members and usually the criminal crow is killed within the circle.
Why has nature shown me this? I do not know. She has spoken to me in the most private of ways. There is a deep meaning to this I am still striving to fathom. But I am grateful that she confided in me at all.
I hope that she knows I listen always.
Especially in the morning.
https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20191211-crows-could-be-the-smartest-animal-other-than-primates
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I have witnessed 1000s of crows in the fields. Hugh swarms of them harvesting grubs in freshly cut silage fields. Nervously watching as they settle on the new shiny black bales. Will they or won’t they? peck their sharp beaks through the flimsy film. I think of murdering a few to scare them off, but never do.
Thoroughly enlightening Lady S. I never knew about a crow court or the justice metered out apon the offenders.
Thank you for sharing. Xxx