A Visitation One Morning

 

          The bird’s tail switched back forth when she walked as if she were the re-embodiment of Mae West somehow. She was a show stopper herself, all shining white with glamorous aplomb.

          Nobody pays a whole lot of attention to birds, so she was free to walk about and make a good inspection of whatever she wished.  White as a gull she had drifted in the starkly blue sky looking at the works of mankind below herself, interspersed with the scrub and rocks and dry soil of the desert landscape.
          The little settlement we know so well interested her. It seemed to be a mixture of very old and not so very old. There was an old Navajo hogan, a smallish old fashioned mobile home, a chicken run, a garden of sorts, and an old blue pickup truck. She saw no one moving around below, not even a dog. So, she decided to drift in.
          First she landed with a rather solid thump on the roof of the classic pale blue pickup. Switching as before, her tail followed her over to the open window. Hanging on firmly with her claws, she bent over and peeked inside. Yes, an old truck.  But, seatbelts and a child’s seat had been installed, a nod to modern precautions. Worn leather seats. A very old black steering wheel. There were signs on the floor of a bit of cigarette smoking. Perfect. A man lived there.
          With a flash of shining wings, translucent in the sunlight, she lit next among the chickens. Fellow birds, but they were landbound for the most part. They and she were of different worlds. There were six of these domestic fowl, various in colors and ages. They were wary of herself and her intentions. They fussed and gathered at one end of their enclosure. She experienced a wave of scorn, no one collected her eggs!
          She entered their small shelter.  Adequate. A good door for nighttime. Nesting boxes. Feeder and water bowl.  Just so! The fence seemed almost like a symbolic gesture, but perhaps it was enough for some reason not revealed to her.
          Then our witness thought to visit the old place, the original home. This was most interesting. It smelled very old, but there was life there yet. A thin line of white smoke traced a vertical line to the sky from a narrow metal stovepipe. She circled the smoke column to disturb its perfection, for a raven’s laugh. She put down on the roof. The sod of the old days was covered over by corrugated metal panels. Her feet made a scratching sound as she marched here and there, up there.
          There are no windows in a hogan. But this raven’s acute hearing picked up tiny sounds from inside. An ancient dry voice singing human songs. Love. Sorrow. Loss and finding.  Home. Small steps.  Was she dancing also, raven wondered.
          Ghostlike, she flickered there on the roof.  Very good indeed. Yes.
          Her curiosity aroused, she thought, “what next, what else is here?"
          Ah.  A late summer garden. Some of the sorrow of mankind was this continual working of the land just to eat. And yet she knew they took pleasure in it also. Good work provides its own reasons for good men and women.
          Bossy matron that she was, she switched her tail up and down the rows of dry corn stalks. The corn was all picked for this year, with stalks still standing. A shame that no corn was left for a raven now.
          A raven is not the only being with acute hearing.  A door opened and a large mutt dog walked swiftly to the bird in the rows. He was silent. Just watching. She tossed a few dry bits of this and that his direction, just assessing his level of aggression.  There was none. A dog of rare perception, she thought, remembering other dogs. In a flash, she left him on the ground.
          From on high, at last she observed the locus of most of the life here, in this little place set apart. The small metal factory-made house remained. She took another strut on a roof while listening to and smelling the business of the interior. Curious bird.  One might even say snoopy. If only she could get inside somehow.
          There are windows in a mobile home. A bird may peer into a kitchen window if she were careful to cling to the metal frame outside. Inside, a motherly person was working in the kitchen. Brown hair, white hands. A busy smile. She was handling pans, meat, vegetables, seasonings. All good and right. This bird was a mother too and had known care. For a moment she remembered, while watching.
          Another window was on the other side. The sun was shining into the front room where a man dozed in a recliner with a book opened face down in his lap. He was tall, thin, brown, with long black hair. He sighed in his sleep.
          Inching her way down the exterior window frame a few feet she could see that on the floor by the sofa was a large brown tabby cat asleep, head on his forepaws, tail wrapped around his striped body. He seemed to be placed in a protective posture near the sofa.
          Finally, she perceived the heart of this place. On the sofa, sleeping the profound sleep of children, was a small girl. She was wearing her daytime outfit, covered with a knitted shawl of navy blue yarn. Here and there scattered over the fabric of her shawl were white stars placed irregularly. Raven marveled. A star-blanket child! Not only the knitted blanket, but the child bore stars. Maybe only a Raven could see them. Stars on her hands and on her head.
          Very good indeed.

           Thoughtfully, she hopped down to ground level. Her blue eyes examined the nearby area for anything of interest to a raven. There. She saw a bit of blue tucked out of the sight of taller beings under the little porch, in the dim shade. Winkling it out with her powerful long beak, she was very pleased with her find. It was Julia Chee's lost turquoise earring, missing for many years. But the raven knew nothing of that, only that is was beautiful and very desirable.
          White wings reached powerfully for the sky. She cleared the land, and carrying her treasure, she flew on.