a digital commonplace book
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I continue my efforts to befriend neighborhood crows. If nothing else, this is making me more observant.
In case you didn’t already know, a group of three or more crows is called a “murder.” If it’s only two, it’s called “attempted murder.”
(background image by Alexa on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
You’ve got to laugh at yourself… before others do. This passing(?) fancy I have of befriending crows has me watching myself as much as I watch them. Am I being silly? Why do I, a human with important things to do, take time for this? Am I desperate for attention—from crows if nothing else? Or are there deeper, inherently human drives?
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I’m not investing a great deal in this novelty. The most I can honestly hope for is that I’ll observe the world more carefully.
(background image from ChatGPT based on the prompt “Create a square-format picture of a crow standing beside wine and cheese,” followed by the correction, “Change the quote in the background; this is a crow, not a raven.”)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This is autobiography in every sense. And I know what you’re thinking. ”Brad,” you might counsel me…. “If you have not been the best of friends to fellow men and women, why would you even consider befriending crows?”
That’s a good question. You’re very wise (and very kind to assume I really meant “INTRA-” not “INTER-”). Maybe YOU could be my friend, and we’d exchange our shiny bits of wisdom….
(background image by S. Nagel on Pixabay)
[written April 14]
At a gasoline station this morning, the driver of the truck at the pump next to mine opened his door, and the truck’s alarm began blaring. I immediately thought, “I’d love to be where the loudest thing I hear’s a crow!” This poem is about the unpleasantness of distrust when provision and purpose are broken. It’s so much of our lives….
