The murder awoke me.
It awoke me from the dream of the secret room with alabaster dancers, hidden behind mahogany doors that parted open upon their world. There, with no audience, they dance, separately, like statues adorning the pillars flanking the left, the right. There was no music, oddly…just motion and a bluish stage light casting a glow over scarred hardwoods.
Another room to the right of the entrance held more dancers. The women wore gauze of white that did not hide their form, their nakedness bared, the fabric only an afterthought. As the women rose, the men descended, like waves fluctuating to the silent sound of dead music of the past that only they could hear.
Mesmerized, I stayed, hoping that this was not a dream. Wondering who brought me here, and why.
The murder awoke me. The throaty cackles swarmed overhead. Disoriented, I searched for their location. Naked, I rose. Blinds lifted, drapes drawn, uncaring of being observed.
The crows staged themselves in the pines in the yard. They talked at length as they dove and soared from one power line to the pine and back again. One crow was missing a large section of wing, backlit by the milky white clouds that dropped steady rain. Unaffected by it, they held their convention, marked only with an interruption here or there by a robin in the holly tree where he defiantly held his position bathing in raindrops that fell from the red berries.
I wondered who brought them here and why.
Dozens of crows. Dozens of dancers.
One pair of green eyes, one pair of ears.
One dream, one reality.
***My morning. A true story. I even recorded the crows and rain for you…