Ink On Snow

A murder of crows took up residence outside our building for the day. From the corner of my eye I've caught their black shapes swooping up high to the rooftop or down from the vine-wound trees. We worked until late night last night, Sunday night. We were at it again this morning, numbers and data, data, data. Eventually I felt I had earned a few minutes of nothingness, so I went to refill my water cup and stood at the wide metal blinds, looking out at the crows. They walk, did you ever notice that? Robins hop and grackles stalk but crows just sort of saunter. They were looking for food. I started remembering every time I needed to draw an illustration of a crow, and the pieces of them I could not recall well--shape of the head, shape of the tail, proportions... It's not a good life they have, exactly. How bleak and desperate frigid these last few days have been, and imagine no shelter, anywhere, and only scraps and bits of carrion to keep you warm. Then again, nobody imposes a structure upon their lives--or more precisely, they impose no structure upon themselves other than the daily cycle of surviving. If they have politics then it's something immediate, brash, and quickly resolved. If they have order then it's without a mission statement or employee handbook. They meet no greater quotas than the needs of their bodies. The only repetitive thing they do is caw, caw, caw. And I would rather listen to that free, coarse music than hear their fingers rattling tiny keys.