Goodbye, Bil.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, your life’s path will intersect that of another’s and you’ll be better off for it, no matter how brief the encounter. A few weeks ago, a man I barely knew but greatly admired died, and I’ve been trying – in the days since – to put into words just why his passing pains me as much as it does.

I met Bil Gilbert in 1973 or ’74, can’t remember which. The occasion was a get-together to celebrate the return of my (first)ex-husband’s cousin from a trip with Bil to the Arctic Circle. I remember thinking, when we were introduced, that he was a lot shorter than I thought he might be, and a heck of a lot scruffier. But, then, Bil wasn’t put on this earth to grace the cover of GQ or Playgirl magazines. Bil was here to write (among a great many other things), and he did a damned fine job of it.

I wasn’t in Bil’s circle of friends, though I would have liked to be. He had a wicked sense of humor and was a great storyteller. Bil paid attention to the people around him, almost as if he were studying them with the same interest as the wild animals that caught his attention. While he gave me the impression he didn’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise, he was civil in letting you know you were an idiot. At least, that was my experience as a result of an incident involving me, my First Husband and a beautiful black snake I almost drove over. FH and I thought, for some long forgotten (and ill-conceived) notion, that it would make a fantastic gift for his cousin, whose house we were leaving after a short visit. We, rather too gleefully for our ages, hurried back to Cousin’s house to bestow upon him our great offering. Bil was visiting there the day we acted the fools, and his ultra-quiet suggestion that we put the snake back where we found it made us snap out of our silliness and do precisely that. I believe Bil was one of those people who could wield sharp words so skillfully that you wouldn’t know you had been cut until you stood up and your butt fell off.

Most of what I know – or think I know – about Bil Gilbert I’ve learned from his writing, for, as I mentioned above, I barely knew him. I think I’ve encountered him four, maybe five, times since that first meeting thirty-eight or so years ago. I wish there had been more occasions. There were so many things about his life I wanted to ask him, so many of his stories I wanted to hear. He unknowingly fostered my continuing interest in crows and other corvids. Bil lived the kind of life I told myself, when I was twelve years old, I would have: the life of an adventurer, an explorer and a writer. I think that’s what drew me to him and made me want to be in his circle of friends.

However, I am glad to have met him, to have crossed paths with him, no matter how few and far between the meetings. The last time I spoke with him was at Cousin’s 50th birthday. I was telling him observations I’ve made from watching my backyard crows. Bil said I should write them and submit them to the newsletter for an organization he started, the American Society of Crows and Ravens. I haven’t yet, but his encouragement meant more to me than any I’ve ever received from anyone else. I’ll remember Bil and his kindness forever.

For Plutarch

Found at DailyArtFixx.com

Crow Time

(I don't remember whose art this is at the top of this post. I found this image years ago, when I was collecting crow pictures for reference material, so I apologize for using uncredited art. I shall look on the Internet to try to find this again, and give full credit when I do.)

The crows are back. Now that the cat who used to live here has moved in with daughter and grandson, they've begun coming into the backyard again. I have missed them very much. They used to perch in the larches and the oak each morning for their gab-fest...and to wake me, too, I believe. They knew I soon would appear on the sidewalk with a plate full of hot dog pieces for their morning snack. If I managed to beat them to the yard, I would whistle for them. Off in the distance, I'd hear them talking to one another, then would see a couple of them fly overhead, silent, watching me as they did a flyby. The first ones would hightail it back to the arboretum in a straight line, the opposite of the meandering approach and circular flybys. About halfway back, they began calling to the ones left behind. I liked to imagine they were quoting the morning menu.

This is the time of year that nesting pairs have begun or are nearly finished building or repairing nests, having dispensed with the courtship/bonding rituals a couple of weeks earlier. During the courtship/bonding period, males break off twigs to present to the females, perhaps as engagement tokens, or - more likely - to prove they can provide nesting materials. Truthfully, I have no idea why they do this, but they're funny to watch as they do. One year I watched a male present his twig five or six times to the female he wooed, only to have her rebuff him and his twig. Finally, he went to the farther end of the branch, set the twig under his foot, picked up the end opposite the one he had been holding, and presented it again. Ha! This time she accepted the twig and the romance commenced.

Last spring, one of the unmated yearlings claimed the tip of the tallest larch in the backyard. The first part of the morning, he cawed loudly in all directions, chest puffed up, body swaying in the breeze. A few of the older birds, including the pair I think are his parents, flew by, cawing once, as if to say, "Yeah, we see you." Mr. Show-off puffed up even more and shook the tree top. He cawed a couple more times, then began stripping off the small twigs, starting at the one just under the very tip, down to about a foot below where he sat. By the time he finished tearing off the tender twigs, the tree top resembled something Dr. Seuss might have drawn. It still looks that way, almost a year later. What was that all about, I wonder.

This morning, one of the older birds took up his (might be her, don't know) favorite perch in the sassafras tree outside my window, just before daybreak, and called the sun up. Of course, I got up, too, and turned on the bedside lamp. When I lifted the shade, I came eye to eye with my alarm clock. For just a few seconds we gazed at each other; a small connection between two Others - the Crow and the not-Crow. With one great flap of his wings, he was gone, leaving behind a crow-shaped hole (as Plutarch once said) in the air.

I'm so glad they're back.
(c) 2010 Martha McLemore

I Miss My Camera.

This morning dawned bright and sunny, with sunbeams bouncing off all the snow at a myriad angles - no need for lights on in the house yet. Everything in the yard is wearing a 12-inch, or higher, cap of snow, like the chimes in my drawing. (Wish I had a camera. My drawing doesn't do the chimes justice.)

...

Don't know if you remember my neighbor, Mike, whom I sometimes refer to as the "Butcher (of trees) from Pittsburgh." Well, I may have to reconsider my unkindness toward him. Several times during the storm yesterday and last evening, Mike got out his brand-new snow blower and cleared the alley between our properties. Granted, he did it because he has to go to work and didn't want to be plowed in by the borough plows, as we usually are each winter, but he blew snow away from where I pull out into the alley, as well. Thank you, Mike. (Perhaps I'll make a fruitcake for him. But, you might be thinking - especially if you're from the US - isn't that worse than calling him the Butcher from Pittsburgh? Okay, okay...I'll make snickerdoodles.)

...

Watched two crows frolicking in the snow on the carport roof earlier this morning. They were so comical, flinging snow about with their bills, almost as if having a snowball fight. Then they took turns, while one stood watch, rolling in the fluffy stuff like I've seen kids and dogs do, their birdy feet flailing in the air. Their snow-fun was arrested when a Cooper's hawk flew over, but then the chase-the-hawk fun began. Yelling for their compatriots to join them, the two snow-flingers lit out after the Cooper's with determination and great speed. That poor hawk had to dodge seven or eight crows around the neighborhood, until he lighted in one of the tall larches down the alley and hunkered down to wait them out.

...

The Kids were over last night. We had turkey-brown rice soup (not so adventurous after all, Plutarch) then sorted out Christmas decorations. In the midst of giving over to Kareema all the decorations I'd collected and used over the forty years I've been "doing" Christmas, I was overcome with a slight melancholy, very slight. (Perhaps melancholy is too strong.) I realized that I was passing the baton, so to speak, to the next generation, because she will be doing Christmas from now on. I mentioned this to Kareema as I passed to her some of the old homemade decorations we've always used.

...

She said she understood.

...

"You're not the Christmas-mommy, anymore," she said.

...

I am now the Matriarch, with all the weightiness that title carries with it, but no longer the focus of family holiday activities.

...

I kept a few items that have deep sentimental value to me, such as the long rubber Chinese-style dragon and the stuffed California-raisin guy. Most important were the pieces she, my brother Don and I made of salt-dough almost 37 years ago, the year after my mother died and Don (17 at the time, same age as grandson Donovan is now) came to live with me in California. If I ever get a tree again, those few pieces will decorate it, but I'm not buying any new decorations.

...

Sigh...oh, the things the snow brings.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Song Birds

Hard to imagine crows as songbirds, isn't it? I was surprised when I first heard they are, too.

...

"You call that croak a song?!" Well, I can't sing very prettily, either, and I call my yowling "singing", so who am I to criticize my feathered brethren?...

Today I was awake before the sun broke the horizon, and was treated once again to the avian Sunrise Concert. I sat outside on the back steps, closed my eyes and listened to all the songs of the morn.

...

When I was a child, someone read me a pourquoi story about some tribe's belief that birds sang the sun up each day. That was why(pourquoi) people began keeping birds as pets, to be certain there was at least one bird around to carry out the task.

...

This morning, I could understand the thinking of those ancient ones, because, as I listened with eyes shut to the world, I felt the rising sun's heat on my cheeks and throat. When I opened my eyes - lo! and behold! - the sun was, indeed, rising over the rooftops at the end of the alley! The world was safe and warm for another day. Life was good, all because of the birds.

...

The crow family that thinks it owns my yard and my trees (they do, of course; I just pay the taxes on the property) joined the other birds in the sun-bringing ritual. Bless their little corvid hearts! They try so hard to warble but it just doesn't come out that way....

...

Eventually, the sun is far enough above the horizon that the concert winds down and most of the birds fly off, searching for whatever heads their individual to-do lists for Sunday morning. The crows are the last to leave and they do so quietly, in sharp contrast to how they arrived.

...

My daughter's cats join me on the steps, looking for attention, bumping against my wrist and hand until I pet them. For a couple of minutes, we three creatures lean against each other, basking in the gentle warmth of the early sun's rays.

...

"Mwawk!"

...

The two cats sit upright, ears scanning the backyard to locate the sound.

...

"Mwawk, mwawk." A crow has returned. I think it is one of last year's brood, judging by the gap in primary feathers on its left wing.

...

The cats, who probably have had unpleasant encounters with crows, slink off to their outdoor hide-away, low to the ground, as inconspicuously as possible for big, fluffy cats. They are comical to watch.

...

Mwawk is soon joined by another crow. They hop up to the topmost branch of the larch, which bends almost in half under their combined weight. They begin to 'sing' to one another.

...

The second crow, whose call is more like "Kwawk" instead of "Mwawk," throws its head back and calls four times. Its call sounds like laughter: "Kwawk-kwawk-kwawk-kwawk!" (Mwawk must have said something funny. I didn't get the joke, but, then, I wasn't meant to, probably.)

...

They entertain each other this way for half a minute or so, then grow quiet. They move closer to each other and rub their beaks together. I've never seen crows do this before and am astonished.

...

Softly, they mwawk and kwawk to each other, rubbing beaks between sets of calls. Fascinating!

...

Mwawk leans over Kwawk's neck and begins to coo. "Coo" isn't exactly the right word, but the sound reminds me of dove cooing. This sound is more like gargling, which I've heard crows do before, but never in conjunction with the behavior I observe this morning. Kwawk makes a softer cooing in response and leans in a little closer to Mwawk. They sit quiet, then, facing the sun.

...

I am stunned! What does this behavior mean? Are they bonding? Is this the yearling, reassuring the younger crow under its care? Has the yearling found a mate?

...

While I'm thinking through the few things I know about crow behavior, Mwawk and Kwawk begin bowing and gargle-cooing toward one another. For usually raucous, ungainly big birds, they are gentle and delicate in their movements and sounds. I suddenly feel awkward, which is silly of me, I guess, but I feel like an intruder or voyeur, peeping in on a moment where I do not belong.

...

Kwawk stops bowing and cooing. Instead, she/he (I can't determine which) begins making a sound similar to that made by tapping two blocks of wood together - a soft "tock-tock." Mwawk does the same, only his/hers sounds like "bawk-bawk."

...

I wanted a closer view and tried to ease my way back into the house for my binoculars. The first slight move I made to rise from the step caused the crows to turn in my direction: both let out a very loud "CAW!" and flew off toward the arboretum a couple of blocks away.

...

Blast, and double-blast! God bless a milk-cow! I hate when that happens! Grump!

...

On the other hand, how fortunate I was to have been given this glimpse of new-to-me crow behavior. If I am lucky, maybe I will get to watch the continuing story unfold next Sunday morning...and you can be darned sure I will have those binoculars with me before I step foot outside again!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Breakfast

This morning, I awoke twice: before the birds began chirping, around 4:30, then again at 6:45. Another gorgeous Saturday morning. Temperature in the mid-60s (Fahrenheit), gentle breeze rustling the leaves, happy little birds holding another Sunrise Concert. Actually, they might not have been all that happy - I read somewhere that most of that early morning chirping is about marking territory, and the more threatened the bird feels, the more it chirps. Whatever the reason, it sounded great.

...

Then I let the cats out. Concert stopped. Three blue jays swept down from the red oak screeching their "CAT! CAT! CA-A-A-T!" alarm call, and all hell broke loose!

...

Every bird in the back yard congregated in the three or four trees near the side gate, giving the terrified cats (who had stopped dead in their tracks and stayed that way) the fright of their lives. I suspect this has happened before because not a hair moved on them, that I could see. Their radar-like ears were pointed forward, not a twitch between them.

...

Before the cats could make a graceful exit, or even sit down, the crows arrived, all seven of them squawking and croaking bloody murder. Smaller birds gave up their perches for the Enforcers, but joined in as best they could with their own scolding calls. What cacophony!

...

I ran for my recorder, thinking this noise would make a wonderful background sound for the blog. Where had I put it? Shoot! Batteries are dead! Where is that new multi-pack I bought last month? Oh, no! There's corrosion on the one terminal...no wonder the thing doesn't work. Gotta clean that before I put new batteries in. Where are those darned cotton-swabs? I check both bathroom closets with no luck, so I dampen a paper towel with some white vinegar (which works like a charm, by the way) and wipe it clean.

...

Can't find my glasses, so I can't see which way the batteries are supposed to go in...oh, wait...the flat end goes against the spring and the terminal (obviously--duh!) goes in the other end.

...

As I'm rushing toward the back door, rejuvenated recorder in hand and recording perfectly, I trip over one of the cat toys and bang against the screen door. Recorder falls to the floor, case cracks open when it hits the floor. Batteries roll off in opposite directions.

...

Outside, the cats leap up as if they'd been goosed, the small birds flap as fast as possible back to their territorial perches and the crows move higher into the sassafras. Scolding the cats is over, as is the Sunrise Concert.

...

It is now 6:50 AM. How could so much chaos take place in less than five minutes?

...

Upon examination, I see the recorder isn't damaged too much. I can fix the crack with duct tape. I'm out of the pink tape so I'll have to use the purple. (Listen, duct tape is a girl's best friend - that, and a .44!)

...

After collecting cat toys and stray batteries - and my composure - my stomach Beast begins to rumble a little. Not quite the "Feed me" rumble, but I know it's coming, so I head to the 'fridge to see what we can have for breakfast.

...

"Breakfast?" Beast asks, slowly rising from its bed at the bottom of my stomach. "Did you just think the word 'breakfast'?"

...

Am I not standing in front of the Major Food Shrine, I respond, rather sarcastically. Can you not see its 15-watt glow, feel its 35F coolness?

...

The Beast rumbles hard against my diaphragm. Urrrrrrp!

...

Sliced ham, eggs, bread, butter and grape jelly. Oh, yes...grated Asiago cheese, left over from a previous meal. The coffee I started as soon as I came downstairs this morning has finished dripping, so we're in good shape. A feast for the Beast!

...

The chives in my herb bed have flowered, which means they are long past cutting stage, heading for seed formation and withering, so I cut a few stems to put in the eggs. Ham gets diced, as do the chive stems and flowers. They are mixed in with the scrambled eggs and cheese, poured into hot butter in my favorite skillet; toast is dropped, coffee mug filled.

...

Eggs cook and are plated with a few seconds to spare before the toast pops up. The feast is assembled and I take it to the back room, where that gentle breeze I mentioned before brings into the room the early morning aromas of other feasts being cooked in other homes down the block.

...

Life is so damned good, I can hardly stand it!

(c) 2009 Photo and text. Martha McLemore

Sunday Morning

Photo by Martha McLemore, 2009

Day broke earlier for me than I wanted this morning, but I'm glad now that it did. I'm the only one up in the house at this hour, except for the two remaining cats (one died this past week - hit by car) and I'm enjoying this patch of time all to myself.

...

We had an unseasonably warm (HOT!) day yesterday that was still smothering us last night when I finally dragged myself to bed. Usually, it is too cool around here to have the windows up at night until mid-May, but both windows in my room were open and the bed was stripped down to just sheets. Felt like July, outside and in, all night.

...

One advantage to being up this early is that most of the sounds coming through the back door, near where I have my computer, are sounds of nature, very little of humankind. It is too early for the competing carillons in the nearby arboretum and the church up the opposite block to be playing. There is hardly any auto traffic in the street, and the little boy who lives two houses down (and squeals his words at an ear-piercing decibel level) hasn't gotten up yet.

...

Breakfast aromas of bacon, coffee and either pancakes or waffles, perhaps french toast, come wafting in on the light breeze that popped up suddenly, then died just as quickly. The stomach-teasing aromas linger behind, stirring the Gastric Beast from its slumber.

...

"Feed me," it rumbles. "Feed me now!"

...

Later, dude. I'm busy right now.

...

"Fee-e-e-e-d me-e-e-e-e, feeeeeed meeeeeeeee," it rumbles in decreasing tones. The Beast goes to its time out corner and fumes, its nose sniffing up the last of the breakfast odors. Rumbly, rumbly, rumble. feeeeed meeeeee, feeeeeed. meeeeeeee.

...

Instead, I feed the cats, love on them as much as they will allow, then let them out for their morning constitutional. One of these Sundays, I think I'll follow them on their jaunts, just to see what me boy-os get up to outside.

...

There were lots of birds already chirping when I awoke at first light this morning. Now the second shift has arrived, and the day workers, each arrival throwing his and her song into the mix. Such splendiferous singing, a joy for the ears! Even the cats sit still and listen, though for different reasons, I'm sure.

...

Enter, stage left, from the arboretum, a yearling crow. He takes his position in the red oak behind the carport and, at the unseen conductor's prompt, lets loose with a ragged "Ca-a-w!"

...

Cats' heads jerk in Crow's direction, their ears all atwitch, like rotating radar antennas, seeking out the deep space pings of distant stars.

...

The smaller, more melodious birds pick up the next note in their 'Ode to Daybreak' concerto without missing a chirp. Several bars along, and Crow chimes in again.

...

"Ca-a-a-wk!"

...

The chorus resumes, punctuated at regular intervals with Crow's ever more raspy croaks. I am reminded of the Anvil Chorus from Verdi's Il Trovatore. Only, the chorus is in a never-ending loop of song and croak, song and croak. I am loving it, every note, the solitude, the fresh air, the wonder on the cats' faces as they look from one part of the chorus to the other - the lone crow atop the oak.

...

I walk to the door to hear better, but my motion startles the cats, who leap up from their seats under the shrubs. This, in turn, startles the multi-bird chorus, who shut up instantly and fly off for safer yards and shrubs. Only the Lonely remains but he, too, stopped singing.

...

Oh, shoot! Bumbling human has messed up things again! (Long, melancholy sigh escapes my lungs.)

...

As I stand in the doorway, I notice that violets have sprung up and bloomed overnight. Violets! One of my favorite flowers! My back yard is almost covered in them, just like Mardy's yard.

...

Ah, yes. Mardy. I am called Crow because of Mardy, a dear departed friend. But that's a story for another time.

...

The Gastric Beast is roused by another sweet-smelling breeze, and this time will not be denied. Time to give it something to eat (raisin toast with cream cheese) before it begins to gnaw the walls of my stomach. I hate when that happens.

...

But first, I will pick some violets.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Crocitation 1: I am Crow

Shortly after I started this blog, I googled to see if there were any other blogs about crows on the Internet. Turns out there are quite a few. I read some of the blogs they were following and now most of those are in my Blogs I Follow list.

,,,

All of which is leading to an explanation of the piece of "art" pictured above. I found blogs by artists whose work I admire, whose work has inspired me to try my hand at creating something more than a pile of dishes waiting to be washed.

...

I used an image I mentioned in an earlier blog, altered it with pastels and pencils and ink, plus some scrapbooking papers and stickers. Then I scanned it and altered the image some more using Paint.net's photo editing program. Enough about the picture.

...

...

...

I am Crow.

I rule the sky.

The Universe is my creation.

I am eyes and ears to the Great Spirit,

who made me his Totem.

I taught Bear to hunt,

and Man to sing.

I am Crow.

...

I am Crow.

I am smartest of birds.

I taught Raven

everything he knows.

I sing the Sun up each morning

and put it to bed each night.

I am Crow.

...

I am Crow.

I taught the rivers to flow

and oceans to tide.

I bring each season in its time.

I taught Man the importance of

fidelity and the value of family.

I am Crow.

...

I am Crow.

I taught Man to laugh, to

love and to Dance.

I taught him to solve problems,

and to make tools.

I gave the World fun and games.

I taught the World how to mourn.

I am Crow.

...

I am Crow.

I am the Keeper of all secrets

and spiritual wisdom.

I am the Watchman.

I am the Teacher.

I am the Giver of all things good.

I am Crow!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Michelle's Challenge

Several days ago, Michelle, http://crows-feet.blogspot.com/2009/02/save-words-meme.html (sorry, I don't know how to embed that or make a link to her blog--still learning), issued a challenge to several people to visit a web site and adopt a word or two or more that were about to be dropped from dictionaries. I chose three; all seemed appropriate for my Crow persona.






An aretaloger is one who writes or recites aretologies, the name for sacred biographies. See : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aretalogy. Another definition of aretologer is braggart, one who is annoyingly boastful. Crows sometimes seem excessively boastful, especially after they've put one over on some hapless cat or human who had the effrontery to cross the crow's path.

Crocitation means caws, cawing or croaking. Crocitation can refer to the sound of frog and toad songs, or the cries of seagulls, too. The word makes me think of "recitation," which is how I'll use it in a separate post.

Nidifice means nest. I used to have a blog titled "Sofie's Nest," but I closed it out. It was full of pain and angst about my crumbling marriage (non-marriage, actually) to a man who turned out to have one too many psycho-sexual disorders than I could handle. Who needs the reminder?

So, if I can get my crap together, I'll post something using the words I adopted.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

The Dance of the Crows

Eva Yerbabuena

http://www.picturapixel.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/eva2-copy.jpg

This is the season when many birds begin their mating and nesting rituals; some, in fact, have been at it for a month or so already. While mating is not the last thing on my mind during the freezing season, it is so far down the list right now that it might as well be. All I can think of lately is staying warm while trying to make my fuel oil supply last as long as possible. ...

Not so the other crows, the feathered ones; the True-hearts. Several times in the last couple of weeks I’ve watched their prelude to The Dance, that elegant, persistent and endearing ritual of bonding and avian seduction I look forward to each winter.

It seems to begin with The Strut, a behavior easily overlooked because it is so common. (I say ‘seems to begin’ because this is the first behavior I notice. They could have been chatting about this for weeks before I started paying attention.) Crows don’t walk so much as they strut wherever they go; swagger, even – especially when they’re cawing and walking at the same time.

The male (I’m making another assumption here, because I have no way of knowing which bird is male and which is female) holds himself as erect as crow physiology will allow, which drops his tail, and sticks out his chest. He struts near the female, but doesn’t appear to look at her. She doesn’t give him the time of day; turns away in a coquettish manner. The seasoned male persists in his antics, drawing a little closer with each rebuff.

She continues turning away, but she begins to look over her shoulder for a split second before he’s completely out of sight. Eventually, he’s close enough to look her in the eye and stay with her, step for step, as she turns this way and that. He doesn’t block her way, just insists on being close at hand...wing, I guess; close at wing.

The Dance picks up tempo when the male bows toward the female and begins to flutter his wings ever so slightly. His behavior now reminds me of the juveniles who have grown big enough to leave the nest, but who still beg food from their parents and from the older sibling who stayed behind to assist with the new clutch.

She bows, then throws her head back, makes a gurgling sound and flutters half-heartedly toward the male. He back-steps from his partner and bows lower still, wings at half-mast flutter this time. He stomps three or four times in rapid succession, como el flamenco, then abruptly stops.

Neither bird moves for half a minute or so.

She breaks the stalemate, turning away from him, this time with no backwards glance. He stands still for a few seconds longer before shaking himself, quickly checking for something in his wing-pits. (Do crows have b.o.?)

Caw-CAW! He has her number. She betrayed her interest in him with her flutter and her bow. He starts over. His caw this time is long and low, almost a growl.

“It is only a matter of time, Corazón, until you are mine!”

She shakes her tail and ruffles her feathers, ignoring his caws and his strutting. She extends her wings out to the sides of her body, her primaries splayed like the fringe on the flamenca’s montone. Her action is an invitation: he accepts.

The Dance of the Crows goes on.

(All rights reserved. Martha McLemore 2009)