Our Dance Across the Plains

“I live down at Old Man Oak’s but I’ve not seen any of you guys around; where and how do you all shelter and manage to survive?” Crow’s curiosity piqued like a wave reaching a crest and pausing just before descending. “Don’t worry yourself, Crow. Our parents were as perplexed as you at our survival. We should be long gone—survival of the fittest and all that jazz—squashed or smashed from the plummet out of the nest or toppled from a branch, unable to fly. But our conditions are not of the ordinary, every day variety. Being born once for a lifetime on this planet —in whatever shape or form we’re given, we chose to be sacred when we chose to challenge—to rise above the status quo of consciousness. We don’t wish it any different. This, you surely must agree, Crow, is a wonderful moment to live in, to be born in. What incredible gifts we have been bestowed with. How ingenious is our challenge—to live as long as possible—to experience and transmute such pain and unique deformities from the flock—to defy darkness through celebration of its strange ways together on its path to the unpredictability of demise. Every snatch of time is unique, so how can we possibly be glum, Crow?” Vehuiah leant backwards into a custom-made niche in the side of the sledge, winking mischievously before turning his attention to cradling and whispering into his monstrous burden. A.R. stepped back into Crow’s line of sight. “Our parents are preparing to leave for the hills and moors. Obviously, we cannot keep up. We take responsibility for our own lives, just as we choose not to hamper our loved ones, who need to fly to achieve their own potentials and sate their appetites for life. We are all seekers of joy in this game. To try to sip and gather up a drop of foul water with this abstract beak, and then to relish its burn coursing through my body—what else can I do but marvel at the wealth and resources that have been wrenched from Mother Earth on such a colossal scale—to be pummelled and processed to produce such a bitter pill for an insignificant little bird like me to experience? To answer your question, Crow, we are fortunate to have requisitioned a punctured tyre down among the nettles to nest inside. We set broken bottle shards around the rim to deny the foxes a meal on our account…” A.R. paused, and, with a wry laugh, looked round at the consensus of nods and chirps behind him. “We’re all gamblers, Crow,” a tiny shrill voice spoke out. Crow guessed it to be Unity, whom she’d seen hobbling away from the sledge. She must have dragged herself up to my blind side. “We elect to remain here, monitoring and measuring the foul city water and rabid food supplies by imbibing them daily and noting their crippling effects. We make wagers between ourselves—rates and types of increases in our disabilities, seizures, that sort of thing, and, on Sundays, we all partake of a weekly draw to try to guess whom, if any, of us will pass over during the coming seven days. For each day we survive without a fatality, we strive to collect extra acorn cups of scraps and puddle potions for storage at the tyre in preparation for the time coming when none of us remaining will be able to move at all. Rather like the circumstance you find yourself in at present, Crow…” And true enough; Crow’s throat had not often felt drier or her stomach so empty for many turnings in her life. She closed her eyes and began wondering about the source of her next meal. A pin pricking in the ribs brought her back round. Vehuiah smartly paced into view wagging a neatly turned wooden crutch in her face. “We are warriors of spirit and we challenge anyone to rush or wish our lives fast gone. Why should this wonderful unique moment in time move more quickly away than any other point in time? Just because it’s a bit monotonous or uncomfortable for some—even for you, Crow—your impatience does not become your talents one iota. We heard about your ‘tantrum in the turret’, as it is amusingly known hereabouts. Word gets about. However misshapen your eye view, we’re all birds, after all is said and done. Recognition and remembering are the keys to knowledge and understanding of everyone’s journeys.” He half-turned leaning on his stick to nod to those listening behind him. “The world could be reborn as a paradise of loveliness tomorrow, but hey, of what use is that to us? Are we going to be any different? Are we expected to regret our loving lives together and the long dream we are working with and for, being whisked away from underneath us like a cheap tablecloth trick by a big bloke wearing a red fez or pointed hat? Or is planetary change to be akin to a dodgy supermarket re-fit? In fifteen minutes, the Garden of Eden will have a grand reopening with a couple of ‘eco-celebrities’ cutting an organic hemp ribbon? Roll up! Roll up! Is that your game, Crow? This beautiful carved ash stick is my magic wand—where’s yours?”