The Crow

Mischievous. Loud. Caw-caw. I screech my truth; all that matters. Primal, confident, sacred, profane. Screeching out clear and gruff commands: “Stay back; make space; this is mine.” It cannot be judged. Judged by whom? This is the purity of silence ripped open by the harsh reality of survival. Called forth from the endless, eternal womb of potential; this is an embodiment, a call to arms and legs.