“One for bad news. Two for mirth.” Old English Rhyme.
The Ravens are out.
Everywhere I look.
Harbingers. But of what?
Folklore says death or evil or something just as foreboding. At first they seemed calculating, scavenging for morsels (they say they’ll “go for the eyes”) and far too intelligent for my liking.
Sitting in pairs and bullying anyone and anything in the vicinity.
But, now I see them as big scruffy signs of fall. Sure, they may not sing sweetly and cheerfully in the tree outside my window like sparrows or chickadees but rather croak and gutturally gurgle at me from the lamppost in the parking lot.
Leaving me a “gift” on the hood of my vehicle.
They remind me of grumpy old men
like Statler and Waldorf.
Sitting in the same comfortable familiar place either on that lamppost or on the ledge above the door at work. Both of them sidled up together seemingly commenting on the goings on below them. Cocking their heads to blink at me with one beady black eye.
They are familiar now.
And instead of scolding I believe they great me every morning. By the end of the day they are gone. And I miss their cheeky squawks.
Who would have thought my “blue bird of happiness” would end up being a couple of crotchety ol’ Corvidae.
Seems intriguingly fitting.