Older, but no wiser

Crows, heard through an open window, shouting defiance at each other. Or are they just shouting at the world in general? Shouting because they can and no-one can stop them. Contemptuous of the disturbance their raucous din brings to a Sunday morning’s peace.

Feet may stand indoors in suburbia on a warm spring day, but for a moment the crow’s call transports soul to a woodland in autumn on a chill, damp but equally quiet morning. Soft brown leaves betray no sound of footfall; tall trunks vanish into a thin mist, and echoing out of the mist, penetrating its silence, heedless of its stillness, comes that same harsh call. Defiant, commanding, omnipotent.

Such power in a sound.