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by Chama C. Fox - Sep 22, 2004 This is the hour to die. You see the vague outline of a hand, trembling with cold and fatigue. Maybe it's your hand, but it's so hard to remember. Did you even have hands? Still, a twig from the tree touches your raw skin; a cold, wet touch from the night's dew that's collected there. The coldness is real, possibly the only reality left in a quickly waning wake of existence. Then you know. The rough bark and glistening needles are yours. The steady stream of sap flows in you with memories from a hundred years of sun devotion, yearning for life, unperturbed by the past winter's harsh caress. Like so many nights before, you wait for the promised moment, when gentle light will make you live again. A muted caw and distant flutter of wings, and you are the raven, flexing the kinks out of your night-tired wings while keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. Yes, your eyes are darkest night, but your mind is clear, oblivious of petty human treachery and deceit. Lazily, you spread your wings. You give them a couple of experimental flaps, letting the morning air flow softly between your feathers, savoring the moment before leaving your perch. The final twinge of pain subsides and you can open your eyes again. The hand is still there, stained with a ghastly dark red. Somehow, it no longer matters, as every sensation overwhelms you, roaring with the tide of eternity. You flare your nostrils at the scent of blood. It disturbs you, inspires fear, the need to flee from danger, faster than anything. And ye, it means a small safety, for you won't be a meal this morning. Gingerly, you stretch your long neck to reach a growing bud on a nearby sapling, joyfully anticipating its spry flavor. The next moment, you're running, fleeing from a shadow descending on you. It might just have been a raven, but the instincts of a million years do everything to keep you alive. There is no hand anymore, just the cool, damp earth and the sound of departing hooves. You can see him clearly now. The human is finally lying still, staring with unblinking eyes up into the sky. How peaceful he looks, lying there with his mind soaring forever. You want to go closer, but Mother snarls at you, so you scamper off to your brothers and sisters instead. Together, tails wagging, you tumble and play near the den as the sun's first rays wash away the shadows of twilight. This is the hour to live. |