Categories
Memoir prose writing

Crow call for April

The chicken brined and so did I, in a solution of salt, memories and music. That Easter in France with Rob and Paul roasting the lamb — then the one 30 years ago I had to work at the drug store in the morning and my girlfriend Marie dropped me off: kissing in the car, young love in the spring, looking back to wave goodbye.

Made a mimosa with left over Prosecco from New Year’s, lay in bed with the windows open listening to the woodpecker. And the frogs now at night, the song of many combined down to one…the dog with a bone she’s been working, chewing the skin off, licking, wagging…we got the old wall clock fixed by the Japanese guy Aubrey, and now I sit there listening to it tic…and I’ll go out in the garage to admire my car sometimes, just stand there and look.

The lake was choppy, the color of lead, and some ducks floated by like pieces of driftwood.

The crow can’t really sing, it clicks, it does what it can with its throat but it’s always real. It makes me stop and think, I know how you feel.


Photo by Laitche, Wiki Commons: Jungle crow, Tennōji Park, Osaka

By pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

15 replies on “Crow call for April”

Love that final para.
Fripp and Eno playing quietly in the background, The Equatorial Stars. They must be closer at the equator, I guess.
I wrote tonight – first non-music for ages – you to thank, indirectly but resonantly.
I outed myself. Well, an important part. Croaks from the throat.

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Ribbet. Nice work, Bruce. “Write on.” Frankly that Fripp/Eno combo was a go-to for me when I wrote every day in England one January. Or maybe it was Budd/Eno, doesn’t matter, it worked!

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That’s a party with too much champagne, and perhaps restraint. Which you could argue goes both ways (good and bad).

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I love how the male woodpecker beats the metal gutter to say, “look at me!” And, “come and get it!”

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