Somethin’ to crow about

  “Imagine! You and a few of your pals decide to get together and have a real gab fest, and you’re havin’ a ball. You go over the latest gossip about road kill, and where’s the best place to get really good garbage, and did the guys at that new fish restaurant up town really have to put such tight lids on their collection pails? See, guys together, friends having a chat, and what do they call our fun get together? A Murder of Crows!
“A Murder of Crows? Cripes, we don’t murder, we clean up other folks murderin'. Okay, okay! Don’t get your dander up (or feathers, or whatever), I’m aware there are stories out there – lots of them actually, when you let your mind dwell on it – ‘bout crows killing;  But I ask ya, who don’t gotta eat? We all eat, and if you ask me . . . well, just take a look inside some of those, whatdya call them. . .oh, yeah, abattoirs, that’ll turn your stomach, if nothin’ will. And, what about chickens? If you wanna keep eatin’ them . . . wow . . . don’t go there man! Oops! I'd better change course here, before  I go upsettin' the kiddies.
“Look, if you’ve got the time, and like to get a bit of learning about us – you know, us, Crows and Ravens – set your self down and let me bend your ear.
 “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have something tasty in your pockets, would ya? Anything. I’ve got a strong stomach so don’t hold back. Check around the linings . . . could be hiding some old peanuts or popcorn, you never know. Check harder man! Something  must be lurking? You found what? A potato chip? You found a potato chip! See,I told you, if you look hard enough you can find anything. Great. S’okay. You can stop lookin’, this’ll be fine for now; might feel a bit peckish later. Did you get that? Peckish! Slays me!
“Not a bad little chip, bit salty, but tasty! Okay, back to getting you on  the learning curve. Gonna surprise ya, too. Like surprises? Me too?
“Ha! I was just about to open my big black beak and let you in on a great bit of news and realized something . . . what I was about to let you in on you more than likely already know. Almost put my claw in my mouth . . . . I know, I know I’ve got a beak-- attractive, nest pa? (Parlay the French)? Anyway, if I wanna  call my beak, my mouth, I will!  Ditto, the claw. No, claw not mouth, claws  is  feet!  Stupid!"

“I resume. The following is not unknown to you and many others, but I shall continue, for I am on a mission to educate. Now, listen and learn anew. . .
“It’s true . . . it seems, that Crows and Ravens have been dressed, by nature, to perform a  role, a dark role to be sure. We are portrayed as symbolizers of evil and death. We’ve learned to live with it. It’s not all bad, really. Just take a gander at me - shiny, undertaker black, satin smooth coat (you gotta admit, it’s fetching), great claws on neat little feet (ahem!), and then, of course, there's the eyes! Boy, do they blaze, or do they blaze (check mine out . . . they’re somethin’, eh!). And, we are, if I may be so humble as to confess, full of intelligence, ingenuity and . . . and . . . cunning. (Alright, I said it)! And yes, it is also true--I cannot deny it--we are scavengers. But look on the bright side. We keep the streets clean. We get rid of nasty dead things. But humans forget we do so much good! We are treated with degrading disrespect, we poor, overdressed, lowly workers; relegated to doing dirty jobs for ungrateful, two legged creatures (present company excluded of course), who . . . who . . . look on in disgust! We weave in and out of traffic, risking our lives  to pick up bits and pieces of who knows what, so they don’t have to look at nasties. Ugh! Makes me shiver, their ingratitude. We are more than that, much more, we are . . . Oh! Oh! 'scuse me, but I must attend to something right away, can’t wait. See that! Sloppy over there has dropped her French fries. Oh! Dear, never a dull moment, always working. . . my, but they do look delicious. Caaaw! Must be off, see you around.  You know how it is--work, work, work. Never ends. Nice chattin' to ya. We’ll get into this again, another time. Okay?"

”

 “Hey! Ho! It’s me again! (They were – quite, quite delicious!) I was meaning to leave this with you, but forgot, I was so anxious not to leave that awful mess on the road. See, I really do have a good heart, honest. Read, enjoy, and as I say, we’ll chat.  Must fly! The bird is on the wing. Silly me, I mean the wing is on the bird!! Caaw for now!"

                                                                            

Just a fraction, or should I say a mere scintilla of the innumerable omens, diverse mythologies, folklore, and facts, on the place of crows and ravens in the history of various cultures. Check it out on the web, type in "Crows+omens," and prepare to have a wonderful time. You'll learn many amazing things.
Don't go away, you have to check this out. This fellow's talking about crows!

The American Poet, Carl Sandburg, is probably best know for two poems that most of us will remember from school, or, if asked to recall, will scratch our heads, and more than likely reply, "that rings a bell." They are so much a part of the American scene, that they dwell somewhere in the minds of everyone. Remember them? “Chicago, Hog butcher to the world,” and the unforgettable--

  FOG
The fog comes in on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and moves on.

The following, “Four Preludes . . .” has a special meaning for me. I used it once in a dramatic reading I arranged, years ago, with a group of young actors. The third prelude contains a reference to crows. I wanted to include that section in this post, but felt it almost sacrilegious to take it out of context; therefore, you now have a chance to experience this noble work, complete.

  Four Preludes On Playthings of the Wind

       Carl Sandburg

    "The Past Is a Bucket of Ashes"

     1

     The woman named Tomorrow
     sits with a hairpin in her teeth
     and takes her time
     and does her hair the way she wants it
     and fastens at last the last braid and coil
     and puts the hairpin where it belongs
     and turns and drawls:  Well, what of it?
     My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
     What of it?  Let the dead be dead.

        2

     The doors were cedar
     and the panel strips of gold
     and the girls were golden girls
     and the panels read and the girls chanted:
         We are the greatest city,
         the greatest nation:
         nothing like us every was.
     The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
     Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
     where golden girls ran and the panels read:
         We are the greatest city,
         the greatest nation:
         nothing like us ever was.

        3

     It has happened before.
     Strong men put up a city and got
         a nation together,
     And paid singers to sing and women
         to warble:  We are the greatest city,
             the greatest nation,
             nothing like us ever was.

     And while the singers sang
     and the strong men listened
     and paid the singers well
     and felt good about it all,
         there were rats and lizards who listened
         ... and the only listeners left now
         ... are ... the rats .. and the lizards.

     And there are black crows
     crying, "Caw, caw,"
     bringing mud and sticks
     building a nest over the words carved
     on the doors where the panels were cedar
     and the strips on the panels were gold
     and the golden girls came singing:
         We are the greatest city,
         the greatest nation:
         nothing like us ever was.

     The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
     And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
     And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.

         4

     The feet of the rats
     scribble on the doorsills;
     the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
     chatter the pedigrees of the rats
     and babble of the blood
     and gabble of the breed
     of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
     of the rats.

     And the wind shifts
     and the dust on a doorsill shifts
     and even the writing of the rat footprints
     tells us nothing, nothing at all
     about the greatest city, the greatest nation
     where the strong men listened
     and the women warbled:  Nothing like us ever was.