November 7th, 2007 | 5 Comments »

Well, it didn’t go all “witchypoo, witchypoo” because crows?

They don’t talk like that.

No, this crow, this crow Came. Just. For. Me. That’s how dramatic it was, with a capital letter full stop each word.

Scenario: Bus stop. Two people plus one average, everyday, witchypoo.

Minding our own bidness, because that is how to best get along at a bus stop.

No asking them what they bought at the nearby liquor store because they might think you are getting all judgmental on them.

Or hoping they will share. Neither of which makes friends, but could cause bodily harm. Not all the people that wait at a bus stop near a liquor store are nice people.

But you know, I really wanted to ask them.

My filters are much better now. I know things.

Crow is waiting on the lamp standard while all of this goes through my tiny little brain.

I feel a touch on my head.

Crow has nudged me with his wing. Hair molesting crow.

Crow lights on the pavement directly in front of me.

The other two move away from me.

It could be because I start to talk to crow. “Well hello, crow. What do you want of me?” It had to be English. I don’t talk crow, except for “caw, caw”, and then crow would think I was making fun of him. Crow hopped sideways a few times, because crow doesn’t want you to know exactly what it is doing.

If you don’t believe me, just watch crow around food.

Crow lands near food, cocks his head, as if to say “Well, looky, here! Food! Lucky me!” then hops nonchalantly over to the food.

That’s how crow rolls.

Crow cocks his head, looks at me right saucy it does, and does the same thing on the other side of its head.

The other two people at the bus stop are nervously and longingly fingering their liquor store purchases.

Crow does an elaborate crow dance, interspersed with many right saucy crow looks. I knew that somebody had died. I knew it.

They had sent crow so they could say goodbye to me. “Thank you for your message, crow.”

I say this out loud, in front of those potentially dangerous, liquor store- shopping bus stop people.

Only now, they think I am the dangerous one.

Why? Not only did I talk to crow, but they saw the crow dance, the crow dance meant especially for me.

Also? They knew it was for me. I saw the looks.

I get on the bus with that sick, dread feeling in the tummy. I start to make my phone calls when I get home. Grammie is 95. She answers the phone. Whew. I go through a list of possibles, leaving the call to The Papa for last.

Why? The Papa has been very ill; I don’t talk to him much, since he considers me a Tool of Satan and all.

The mildly amusing OCD Stepmother calls me.

She tells me that The Papa is having a good day. Whew.

She used to live in the city where I live now. Still gets the old home town paper.

“I saw an obituary in the paper from the city where you live now. It said Saucy Man died. Is this the same Saucy Man that we met?”

Oh. My. Yes. Yes, it is.

I should have known. That was one saucy, hair molesting crow.