. . .
that summer the lightening ran down the mountain.
the ditches ran rampant with wild roses in bloom; the pale pink and brilliant fuchsia of the flowers amplified against inky swaths of asphalt.
the summer you walked the tightrope of desire and duty.
the summer i burned like holy fire; awake, alive, yearning, seeking, keening, screaming.
screaming for more fuel.
shrieking my banshee song.
desperate and clinging, clawing, to anything that might offer me purchase.
that was the summer i found myself at the diamond willow tree peering up at a crows nest tumbled unceremoniously into a tangled crossroads of branches.
and like a flood, a sharp intake of breath, i remembered the dream from thirty years prior.
my six year old self standing in front of a diamond willow. that same tumultuous gathering of sticks masquerading as a nest. and one giant black crow perched on the edge.
her great inky black beak dipping into her nest and emerging with two marbles: one milky white and one startling blue.
i reached out for them, my hand pale and small in comparison to this crow queen, and as she gave them to me i, fast as a lightning bolt, sure as one too, popped them in my mouth and swallowed them whole.
providing safe space in my own belly. warmth and nourishment too.
and that summer, thirty years later, was when i realized, i am the thing with wings.
inky black and iridescent they rustle against my frame.
i am the one who sees.
we slammed, cataclysmic, tectonic, into one another.
you chose duty.
i chose both the agony and the ecstasy of awakening.
. . .
to grow flowers
from our decay.
Fernie, British Columbia