Did you know crows mourn the dead? Circled in sorrow, Cawing candid in the dawn of dread as dead eyes inspect the grass, conjuring questions I fear to ask.
What do they know of mortality? Do they live with the concept of their own fragility? Are they kept in stress by concepts of death forever aware their breaths are counted like beats of a heart or a wing? Maybe that's why crows caw and don't sing.
Do they know what awaits them? A heaven to play in or a hell to pay sins in or neither or both or they don't know
and invent mad gods
to give mad answers
to mad questions.
And can life grow painful and cold? Can they fold in their wings above the sea and choose a graceful embrace of the end of a dream?
Or maybe they live. They embrace the freedom without craving reason and experience life free of the knowledge it ends, they just fly and feel and know they're alive and real and not marching to face the end.
Are humans just crows who traded the freedom of flying for the cage of reason and questions of dying?
If I were asked once more to decide, I'd take up my wings and continue to fly.