| krylo | 2007-12-01 06:12 Извините за вторжение, но, думаю, наличие оригинала не помешает. Crows Crows love midwinter mornings as I do staggering, black and shiny--out of their asylum. Mornings so cold the air is seized in the impasse of its bitterness, a white, violet mist hovering in the absence. They drop from the naked trees for what remains. Suet that hangs in a cage, tethered to a limb. Too bright, like lacquered boxes. Too bright the shine on them. Not yet defined from darkness. We hope for what we understand, pain that comes and goes and comes like winter, in welcomed revelations. A cardinal blooming on some January thorn. Doves weeping, eating seeds that rained through cracks. Sparrows purchased for pennies in Jerusalem and eaten by the poor. It's what we learned by repetition, first having, then not having. Seeing and not seeing. Not a force of darkness spinning on beyond our reach. Jesus says to live like crows. It's remembering the sermon as one of them jabs its black beak in the suet. Don't worry a minute of your life. Don't gather stores for winter. Don't plant or harvest. But the other birds are worried. A blue jay swoops under a nearby pine shrill with jealousy. And a sparrow in a leafless redbud is occupied by a mute terror. In another account by the French explorer, de Creve Coeur, crows leave a man hanging in a cage with his eyes picked out, staring out of nothing at the empty horizon. I'm outside. I'm shivering. I begin to not understand the need I have to gather details. That rabbis, for example, forbid mentioning of crows in prayer. Or Pliny thinking crows were absent-minded and couldn't find their ways back home. I can't stop shivering. The search for paradise, for the pain that goes away, was not a search but a wandering. Haphazard. And the black roots so deep in me. The bitterness. It's staggering. |
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