driftwood twig

there once was a raven. or was it a crow? it perched in the shadows of dried leaves, calling caw, caw, caw. but it didn’t matter to the grasshopper there or the beetles or the nearby frog on the mossy rock. they had larger problems. but to the human there standing beneath the raven, it mattered greatly, for it was an omen, so he mused, though he would ignore it for a time.

when a twig of a tree becomes just barely overextended, it can become dry and unwell. the tree has no use for it then, and the little twig knows it, and so it withers away into hardly much more than barked dust. and when a little squirrel gently steps upon it, it will crack and fall. often it will fall unnoticed at all, but should it splash into water beneath the tree, like from a stream passing by, it will be known to all the creatures there, for it sounds like a fish or a frog or a snake and anyone of the forest is well to fear at least one of them.

a stick isn’t meant to float, but it does, and it will float for quite a long time if the conditions are right, and they almost always are in the forest. and should the raven catch glimpse of an ant and swoop down clumsily after it, its labor would not be for food or sport but to catch the poor ant in its beak and rub it across its feathers to ward against harm—all true. but the snarky ant is faster than the raven and it darts around and soon hides within its countless nearby holes. and so the raven, being sharp, looks about its world and spots the driftwood twig passing by. the raven would grab it, i have no doubt, and he would immediately put it to use stabbing at the ant hole. but he would tire and begin to play. and he’d soon be joined by another one, his wife, who is smarter than he is but fond of him. and there are others too, who can appreciate the beauty of a good twig. and what forms is called a conspiracy; a flock of ravens. they can also be called an unkindness, which i feel is rude, but it is nothing to murder, which is what they call a group of crows.

by this time the man is long gone from the forest for his home is not the woods. and he has forgotten the raven and never noticed the ants and doesn’t care for the twig or much else about the forest and his thoughts are within himself and elsewhere in places that don’t exist.