Love of corvidae.
I'm not quite sure when my initial love for the crow snuck up on me. Perhaps
it was something to do with the painting on the wall of my father's house,
a painting which looked all very 'nice' to the casual glance, but was, in fact,
crows eating the chicks of another bird. Perhaps it derived from my liking
for the colour black. Perhaps from the fact that I've never been awoken by
crows cawing during the hours known only to me as 'too early', not like
some avians I could mention. Perhaps from these, and other things.
The fact remains, crows caught my interest, and once caught, they held onto it firmly. Nowadays I can often be seen walking backwards to aid my observation of an airborne dark one, or one perched on a nearby chimney.
Crows activities are almost matched for elegance by their inactivities. Never have I seen a crow make a clumsy landing, nor, as mentioned, have I heard one during 'too early'. Meanwhile, I have seen them make the tidiest landings, my favourite of which was when I saw a crow fold its wings up before it even touched the ground. Somewhat different from some gull landings I've seen, face-first style.
I've never been one to believe in superstition, but I have a slightly suspended disbelief when it comes to the omens of crows. I've noticed for myself a quite unlikely correlation between the activities of crows and 'relationship' events. A second crow approaching a used perch, and landing near a first, for example, indicates very accurately that I'm going to meet someone quite... well... considerable.
Sadly, I tend to more often see the first fly away.
Amongst my favourite remembered dreams is one which featured little more than a crow. I hold that dream to be quite personal, so shan't reveal it here (more personal than my art, my songs, anything here. Very personal. But not sexual, mind).
If there were any one magical ability I could take (beyond the obvious "Get whatever I want" style), it would be that of corvide shapeshifting.
The death of a corvid, or pain, if I know about it, is one of the things most likely to upset me. One of the very few things that could easily cause me to become violent. One of the things that can bring tears to my eyes. If you know a tale of a crow dying, spare me it.
Crows seem to match very well with my personality... Mating for life (not that I can claim I do, but such would be my wish), playing games, even, it seems, enjoying the same weather.
I laughed one day, while walking home in the rain, coat spread wide, catching wind and rain and enjoying it, I saw a crow perched on rooftop aerial, in what was surely the same position as me. Feathers spread wide, leaning into the wind, beak raised to the sky.
Suspicious and confident beasts too, another mini-anecdote springs to mind, of a crow at a bus station, thrown a piece of bread. It kept away, to the top of a lamp-post, until the bread had been 'tested' by a group of gulls. At this point, it flew down, landed a metre from the ten-or-so gulls, and cawed. The attention of the gulls turned from bread to crow. The crow, bold as can be, sauntered towards the bread. The gulls, despite their numbers, backed away cautiously. Upon reaching the bread, the crow snatched it up and flew with it to a nearby rooftop.
Ravens, I gather, are not unlike the carrion crow, only moreso. And, sadly, less in quantity. I'd like to meet ravens firsthand, both literally and metaphorically.
This, then, is why I wear the name.
[ Think back... | To further corvine things ]
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