The dying crow.

The other day, I observed, in humbled silence, a vigil being kept by two crows as they watched over their dying companion- holding sacred space as the dying crow lay nestled in the grass.  I was so moved by their attentive eye and compassion.  The two sat high in the trees, taking turns warning and attacking any passer-by.  The dying crow picked at the grass, eyes glazed white, and burrowed deeper into the ground.  It was around 5 PM.  I stood there, observing from across the street, for about 30 minutes.  I’ve been there myself- holding sacred space, saying goodbye, keeping family close, blocking out unnecessary visitors.  I went out again at nightfall.  The crows were gone, having flown off to the rookery.  The dying crow- not there.

 

 

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