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| Artwork by Roberta Jones Wallace, 2020 |
"Awk," "awk" . . . a familiar throaty refrain. A crow calling, or commenting, as I begin my Sunday ramble with my dogs. There is something reassuring for me when I hear the crows' calls, or their throaty mumbling. I read in a book of fiction long ago that members of the corvid family are keepers of history. They see all and keep a record, their gatherings an exchange of information. Somehow it fits, since many times when I have been hiking in the woods it seems as if crows or ravens are following and tracking my journey—sometimes giving encouragement, sometimes muttering what a noisy person I am.
Crows and ravens often have the mixed blessing of being seen as tricksters or bad guys. In certain mythologies, they represent the balance between wisdom and foolishness. I frankly like the idea of levity in one’s ignorance, and the opportunity to progress despite it.
For me, they are a comfort, somehow making lone rambling un-lonely.
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