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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I have always liked crows. I don't trust them, but I do like them. I like those videos of crows sliding down a snowy roof and then doing it again and again just for fun. I like that they take time out of standing over carrion in the road and daring the cars to run them down to just relax and engage in some childish recreation. And this is, of course, because they are essentially children. I have always thought of them as being like perpetual adolescents. A crow is a bit of a bully amongst other birds, after all. A crow isn't afraid of your car, he is afraid of other crows seizing on his lucky find of roadkill. He doesn't step aside until the last minute to show you he's not afraid of you,but he doesn't go far because he doesn't want to share. Big Bird shares. Crows don't. And they hang out at the mall. Typical teenagers. But I just read that a crow is the intellectual equal of a seven-year-old human. That sounds great until you think about flocks of seven- year-old children flying over your head, pooing on you and then caw-cawing about it (let's face it, potty humor is big with seven-year-olds). Seven-year-old children who can remember your face if you make an enemy of them, and are equipped with a pointy beak to poke your eyes out. Maybe I don't really like crows, after all. But don't tell them that. |
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