Now that’s what I
call poetry! Izzy
Were the chief, the most stunning of sun-eyried
eagles to take up with drab and hapless crows— shabby, small, squabbling with each other, living by petty thievery yet terrified of scarecrows, of straw men in fields— and if he became a crow and lived as their servant wouldn’t that be a story! Supposing they set on him, pecking with their
beaks like chickens and squawking, raucous: Think you can change us?
We’re happy like this. Go back to your nest on your
cliff in the sky Resume your wingspan and fly where we won’t
have to feel the sharp point of your loving. Go on, soar high and don’t
interfere. Imagine if somehow, by dying a crow at their hands, he made them all eagles, and they never again feared a scarecrow or farmer’s stones or the clang of pie plates and they viewed the fields from high on a
mountain, navigating the wind in the morning and their call sent shivers of awe up the spine of
the earth and made all creatures listen. And now, please nobody go trying to map my
theology based on an extension or dissection of the above
analogy... |
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