messenger

a truth-teller follows me,
skating from tree to tree

this morning his black
is ruffled by a stiff wind

and his message is more
raucous perhaps as a result

but even on quiet days
it is much the same

but one morning, he’ll cry
“a-ha! a-ha!”

when he sees that I
finally get it

© Sarah Whiteley

Has it been a while since I’ve given a crow update? It has! There are signs that Coyote and his mate are nesting, but it’s not in the same spot as last year’s nest. Knock-Knock (last year’s offspring) has made himself scarce again lately – no doubt exploring the world. Coyote seems to have accepted the boyfriend and has even approached him when I’m not there once or twice.

The relationship between Coyote and Freyja-dog is an interesting one lately. Freyja knows not to chase the crows (but will chase pigeons!) and I think the crows have learned this. But lately Freyja has wanted to play with Coyote and engages in the typical doggy play invitation stances when she sees him. A couple of times, Coyote has crouched and hopped closer and then away as if teasing her. Crows are completely capable of play and I’m halfway wondering if he’s recognizing that’s what my odd little dog wants to do.

Had a lovely (albeit very breezy) breakfast on the side porch yesterday morning with Coyote for company. I managed to capture a video on the tablet of him asking for treats. About midway through, we get interrupted by a neighbor (who gave me very odd looks for clucking at a crow) and I had to pause until he went away, but you can see Coyote get anxious.

Anyway, here’s Coyote wanting his treats: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FY26nP1Sb0M&feature=youtu.be

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at Sleepy Eye

days stretched out so long, they toppled
off the end of the weathered dock
into the spring-fed cold at Sleepy Eye

among the shadows between the pilings
swam the uncatchable ghost of a walleye
(suitably fish-tale-sized)
someone years past had called Walter

every summer we saw him jump,
breaking the lake at dusk, just offshore
where the small-flies gathered
in their short-lived, tiny-winged hordes

at the splash “it’s Walter!”
we’d gasp and sit properly awed
while we envisioned the sort of net
that might finally nab him

the “growed-up” me is somewhat relieved
Walter’s remained a fish-ish myth,
dodging all the efforts and lures
of the great northern fisherman

this way, he’s stayed a childhood tale –
of firefly nights among hundred-year pines
and the hollow sound of wooden oars
striking the sides of a kid-captained boat

© Sarah Whiteley