Just beyond the vultures I noticed a single crow hovering effortlessly above on the breeze. With more holes and tears than wings, it was a marvel the ease with which it glided along in the Winds, occasionally diving and sharply sweeping back upwards, appearing as though he was making a game of it.
An odd chill traced down my spine at the sudden remembrance of something my grandmother used to always tell me. When I was a child I used to go out and spend some weeks with her each year, in her little house at the foot of a midamerican mountain range. with an unabating repetition she would recount to me about the differences between the eagles and the crows.
“Never cease to observe with wonder the way of the eagle upon the winds, traveling great heights and distance with little effort and reserved strength. He soars and excels above all those around, and does not grow weary or heavy from the journey because he depends solely on something far greater and more expansive than himself. Meanwhile, the crow constantly beats his wings against such forces, often to only stay in one place.”
She would persistently tell me that I was meant to learn to become like the Eagle, that I might conserve my strength for better things than just the traveling. I hadn’t thought about this in many years, but had never stopped jealously watching the eagles soaring above me. I never understood why she chose the crow to pick on by comparison, when I didn’t see why one couldn’t learn to fly however it so pleased. I knew it was true, but somehow in all my years had never managed to actually see one do such.
Now in retrospect, I would have to say I that became more like the kind of crow she used to talk about than even the clumsiest sort of eagle. Yet even if only subconsciously- I had given up on the silly dream of ever becoming anything more than just another one in the slow murder of a sad, nameless thousand. That spark had indeed been extinguished within me.