The crow is a harbinger of transition, a symbol of time passing, of seasons changing. Their call marks the birth and death of the fields, life cycles beginning and ending, spinning out into eternity. Their call is a reminder that all things must pass for new things to begin again.
In mythology, crows and ravens serve as spirit guides and messengers, a living connection between the spirit and material worlds. While the call of the crow can feel cacophonous and disruptive, even ominous, it is not necessarily an ill-omen, nor ill-intentioned, just a reminder that change is always on the horizon.
Crows and other winged scavengers are opportunists and survivors. They never fail to take advantage of the changing winds. All life is sacred, and should not be wasted, so sayeth the crow. Death for them is a feast, letting nothing go to waste. Turning death into life is a symbol of their divine alchemy, a symbol of the divinity of all life.
But death is not their only interest.
Crows enjoy the verdant vivacious bounties of life just as joyfully as any animal enjoys the spring. A time for every season, death and life, rejoicing in the cycle eternally. The crow is a figure of eternity, a being of time. It is no wonder then that they function as the heralds of the changing season. Their innovation and obsession with shiny things express their natural curiosity. It is only natural that they should take interest in everything that is novel, as they are the witnesses of the spirit world, and its eternal messengers, watching over all of us in place of the divine.
Crows are the keepers of ancient secrets, which they shout out freely to any who would hear it, but few know how to listen, and fewer still would understand it if they did.
It’s bad luck to kill a crow.
Its grace and intellect is self-evident, its mystery sacrosanct. People almost fear the crow. The crow is an agent of Fate and a lover of Fate who passionately watches Fate unfold, never failing to miss a moment. Perhaps the crow is even a deliverer of divine judgment.
The crows see what happens on our streets in the black of night. They see our people sleeping in those streets. They see our people dying in those streets. They smell their blood and bodies. They see the drops of rain wash away the stains of yesterday. They smell the sacred waters spilling onto pavement. They see the cars come and go, come and go, neon lights flashing into existence and then fading into nothingness. They smell the rust and burning oil.
The crows have never missed a moon or a sunrise.
They see beyond our cities. They smell what we have yet to smell. They see the forests burning. They smell the smoke. They see the storms. They smell the saltwater. They see the lightning. They smell it in the air. They feel the pulse of change.
Oh, and the things they hear!
You can only imagine the things they hear!
They hear the frustration and greasy-sweaty cries of a thousand traffic jams. They hear the sound of thunder pounding from long guns into the earth. They hear the cries of people fleeing to nowhere in all directions. They hear the endless humming of electric waves, multitudes of machines. They hear the grinding of glaciers across the empty expanse. They hear a priest’s last confession. They hear a father’s last goodbye. They hear a dying woman no one will remember. They hear a young girl when no one else does. They hear a hateful young man when no one else should. They hear the last lonely eagle fall to the ground. They hear the last brown buffalo draw its final breath. They hear people talk in the mirror. They hear people’s words that say nothing. They hear someone promise again that this is the last time. They hear the sound of a generation giving up. They hear the sound of another one just beginning. They hear the lies we tell. They hear the truths that we don’t seem to.
But the crows don’t believe in tragedy.
The crows have seen and heard and smelled it all before. The crows have learned to see the beauty and live in grace, even in the filth and the mud, overpowering the smell of death with life’s vibrancy.
Maybe the crows just sit there, watching us, waiting for the day when all our actions will come back to haunt us. Or maybe that cacophonous calling is just them laughing at us, like one laughs at a cheerful child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. Maybe. Who knows?
Only the crows I suppose.
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