There is wood but no flames; striking flint under the overhand seems an unnecessary thing these days and I ask if campfires are what calls the spirits or if the spirits call the campfires and it does not really matter when I ponder it longer.
Stones and bones and endless lakes do not require flame for light, for warmth, nor do the woods — only the living and those that remember a living think of flame. And sometimes then, only when it threatens their homes.
So I forego the campfire and sit upon the log someone dragged out to sit on while they watched hungry flames eat the air and dead in front of them. Crow has gone off to do crow things and She will be back soon. Perhaps with another bauble, perhaps with nothing more than words.
The strangeness is in the knowing this Crow is She. Her of the Woods? Unlikely. For the Her of the Wood? Assuredly, for She is many. How much anything is shared with Her is up for debate. I’m skeptical that I matter quite so much as to warrant details beyond: he is a slow learner, he is a klutz, he is blind and stumbling.
The granite overhang has an opinion, but is more interested in a slow, low rumble of laughter than chatter. There are days that I think the wood keeps me around more for low entertainment than for my higher state of being.
The pond is unexpectedly unfrozen. It beckons the unasked question of if I should take advantage of this and see what I find if I dive but I decide against entry without being given permission. It is too sacred of a place.
I am left with bones, skulls and antlers and their clatter when they speak. They have seen both worlds, they say. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, who’s to rush either way? Perhaps I will lean back and find the pond has moved and I will fall away into another place with barely a thrash, barely a splash. It doesn’t matter much, either way, they say. So stay. Stay. Stay.
We are cold. Always cold.
As night falls, I grow cold too. Strike up a spark and give it to flame.
Soon the fire lights the night for those of us needing flame and I see them drawn to wander in from the night and the cold to join in again.
Leave a comment. Markdown permitted. Comments are closed after three weeks.