Murder of a mother

A crow sat perched on a birch. Its eyes were set on the bell of a child’s rattle. The rattle sat in a young mother’s basket, which she had used to carry her picnic. It squawked at the early sun, which had just finished chasing away the morning chill. No dew lingered at this time of day. The young mother busied herself setting out the blanket as her child roamed nearby. The crow saw what morsels she’d prepared for her time in this field. Such sweet delights she brought to spread on her bread. Another crow came to join, nearly a murder now. The crows caw’d back and forth, plotting. The crows were amassing now. They would be this mother’s doom. At once they descend. The murder at first circled then a few land. The woman on her blanket, child sitting nearby, pulled forth seed and sweets, cranberries and such. She began to throw the seeds all about her, drawing a sacred circle in feed. The murder would soon destroy what safety it might provide. Pecking and scratching, they all ate to their delight this mother’s bounty. Open and naked to the spirits of the world, now, the woman watched her murder. Such a sweet thing to see.

But see she did not our very first crow, scuffling and shuffling close. The child did, beguiled by it, smiling as it drew forth to strike. It hurls itself upon the rattle, mangling its foe so, to rip from its grasp the prize sought. The bell rattled furiously, drawing mother’s eyes. She waved her arms and told it, “Shoo.” Her spell worked and the bird was away from her space, but not before the damage was done and the prize sought was won. Triumphantly the crow returned to its perch, high above this murder of a mother.