Crows

It is a cold and sunny day. Everywhere you look it is white. The ground is white and glistening with sunshine sparkles. The trees are layered, dark and white. You are walking along a wide path. All around you is quiet, still, white. A flock of black birds fly overhead, calling: Caw! Caw! They land at the very top of the very tallest tree. Crows, black against the bluest sky. They are talkative and social. You listen and you watch. You want to talk too: Caw! Caw! They are still now and watching you. And then . . . Caw, caw! You run, arms out, footprints marking the snow, rushing down the path. Caw, caw! Your feet are pounding and there is such a noise in the trees now. The crows are all flying with you, many, many, black, black, black. Together you fly. Fly! Crows flying up and up and up . . . until they are only dots against the blue sky. Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! they exclaim. You stop, and your spirit continues to fly up with them. Your heart is full of the cawing sound. You are with them, and you are alone with the quiet snow.