The Crows...

The Alfred Hitchcock crows fly in every evening at dusk to roost in the cypress trees that are scattered about town. There are so many sitting on the telephone wires that you cannot see where one ends and the other begins. They darken the sky with their beating wings and their cries can be heard predicting catastrophies and screaming their good-nights to each other. You can see them swarming in on the tide of the skies, wind surfers every one. The smaller birds vie for space on the wires, in the trees, on rooftops, and even in the streets, but the crows are evidently the kings of the sky.

But wait. What is that in the topmost part of that pine tree? Is that a hawk? It sits there, regal on its throne, daring the crows to pretend they are in control. The crows know he is an unwelcomed guest in their drama. They beat their wings, herald their war cries, and begin to bombard this royal king of the skies. The crows are angry. How dare this young upstart try to take over their territory? Yet there he sits. Unperturbed by the crows attacks. For he knows. He knows that he has but to extend those massive wings, flex those sharp, hooked claws, and he will be dining on Ol' King Cole's pie, with four-and-twenty blackbirds as supper.

I watch this opera unfold as I am out for my evening walk. I afford myself a silent grin, knowing the birds are frustrated at the hawk's Rhett Butler attitude. He just doesn't give a damn.

I want to be that hawk. When the crows in my life are crowding me, drowning out my silence, attacking me with their boldness... I want to sit quietly upon my perch, knowing that I can bake King Cole's pie any damn time I want.