The Corvus and the Man

A titillating mirage, going, going, going, gone.

A big black bird in a big black tree reminds you things are never what they seem to be.

Squawk. Squawk.

“Excuse me, miss?”

“Birds can talk?”

“Well of course they can!”

That’s right, I’m just a fool.

He continues, “May I ask, where are you going? Perhaps I can help.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Tell me, where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”

“But you do! Think! Where are you going?”

“To the creek over by the mountain.”

“That’s right, and why are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”

“I don’t know”

“Why do you keep lying?”

“Because somebody told me to.”

“It’s a foolish thing to listen to the words of others.”

“Maybe.”

“Certainly.”

The conversational Corvus cranes his invisible neck. His eyes are blue.

“I think you should go to the meadow instead.”
“Okay.”

The right fork in the cobblestone road beckons. My friend nods me farewell. And I find my way to the meadow.

A picturesque score, passing, passing, passing, no more.

A big green frog in a big green field reminds you that what a farmer sows will not always be what he yields.

Ribbit. Ribbit.

“Good day, miss. Have you lost your way?”

“Frogs can talk?”
“Only if you want them to.”

“Oh.”

“Why have you come to my field?”

“A raven told me to.”
“Everyone knows not to listen to ravens!”

Sigh.

“You’d like the wood much better. There you will find what you seek.”

“Thank you.”

And so I go, leaving the naked grass for the dark, leafy abyss.

An arresting reverie, rushing, rushing, rushing, ceased.

A big white man in a big white wood reminds you that a maker is not always a keeper. 

Blink. Blink.

“Hi.”

“Monsters can talk?
“What a stupid question from a stupid girl”

I stare.

“Are you lost?”
“No, I’m right where I am supposed to be.”

“I’d like you better if you were lost.”

“I know.”