From the Playground

Shaman's words float into the forest, fall like snowflakes, and pile up on my computer in a lovely drift. Often they are the inspiration for a photograph, a pleasant prod that causes me to don my barn parka (because it's big enough for the camera to fit under) and skis or snowshoes and go off in search of something that will reflect or illustrate her poetic creation. It's a game we're playing. Our playground is a secret blog known only to us, where her words and my images mingle and balance, teeter-tottering together.

Crows have been scarce lately. "The King's Trees" has been hanging around my desk for a couple of weeks, waiting for me to get a shot at their "black and primal selves," and then, yesterday morning they finally heard their cue.


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The King's Trees

One crow
rests
on top of an oak tree,
another crow
sits, alert too,
on the neighbor tree,
a maple.
Comfortable,
on the highest branches
their outstretched heads,
with penetrating eyes
focus
on whatever suits
their black and primal selves.

Or maybe,
they are simply half asleep,
each humming a favorite tune.
As I used to do
as a child
who climbed and sat
in beautiful trees,
feeling
like the king.

By Becky Harblin © copyright 2007
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