Flying with Crows

Use your imagination and you can fly with crows. Since you won’t be able to speak to unimaginative people about such things, your magic flights can be transformed into poems and scenes in novels.

David looked the crow in the eye while concentrating on the drum beat of his of his own heart until the apartment slipped away and he found himself flying, one crow among many, across the clear sky of the lower world, watching the city with brown eyes as it slid southward into the morning and disappeared.

Wind, the Creator’s breath, we found it sweet and held it as tentatively as flight required with effortless, almost lazy, caresses of our wings. The city before us, north along our route, did not exist until we manifested it out of dream and then perceived our creation, now then, West Wood Street coming out of nothing, then returning, the same, now then Eldorado and the railroad tracks followed by Central and King healthy with people wrapped against the cold, hurrying after their morning tasks unaware they owed their lives to crows, more common and libeled than alchemy’s prima materia, yet mothers of gold in all its forms, then Marietta and Orchid and Packard, less jammed with cars where the city centre held less sway, soon, then Division and the IC tracks until, in the slim distance we gave birth, were birthing without effort or preoccupation with means, a White Rolls Royce Corniche crossing the intersection with Shafer, the top was down and
Eve’s hair was flapping like a crow’s wing, and as we descended, I could just hear the whisper of the car’s 6¾ litre V-8 engine when she passed a ploughed field, reached forward, and made the call.

The harsh ring of the phone tore me out of the air; I hit hallway floor next to the Chippendale claw-and-ball candlestand on the 4th ring. Somewhere between the field and the apartment, reality twisted inside out and expected Siobhan to be calling from the police station.

–I’m here, Cat.

–No, David, it’s Eve. I’m glad you’re up.

–I couldn’t sleep, he said, disoriented and heavy.

–Sweet Jesus, all these birds in my face.

–Perhaps they’re looking for fallen corn in that field to your left.

–You did this?

–Don’t be silly. Nobody controls crows.

–Copyright (c) 2010 by Malcolm R. Campbell; excerpted from Garden of Heaven, a novel in progress.

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