Like
many,
I
have
a
fascination
with
corvids.
Wikipedia
describes
them
as
a
"cosmopolitan
family"—what
a
great
phrase!—of
120
species
that
include
crows,
ravens,
rooks,
jackdaws,
jays,
magpies,
treepies,
choughs,
and
nutcrackers.
How
can
a
writer
not
love
such
naming?
We
have
both
crows
and
ravens
nearby,
and
sometimes
we
get
the
treat
of
a
trio
of
them
riding
the
updrafts
in
a
wide-wing
ballet
or
a
large-bodied
raven
spiked
atop
a
cupola
calling
out
in
syllables
of
caw.
Every
once
in
a
while,
we
get
the
delight
of
a
blue
jay
on
the
back
deck
with
its
jutted
crest
and
razored
screech,
its
brash
energy
rippling
the
air
like
a
stone
across
a
pond.
I
have
a
couple
of
coffee
mugs
from
the
now-defunct
Monroe
Salt
Works
of
Monroe,
Maine,
spring-mud-brown
in
color
with
their
distinctive
salt
glaze
and,
burned
in,
a
profile
of
a
crow
sitting
on
top
of
corn
cob.
I
like
to
think
the
combination
of
corvid
and
coffee
is
potent
and
protective.
In
fact,
I
think
that
must
be
true
because
one
of
the
larger
mugs,
which
holds
a
writing
session's
amount
of
coffee,
has
a
hairline
crack
on
the
outside
and
inside.
I
can't
tell
if
the
crack
runs
through
the
side
of
the
mug
or
is
just
a
splitting
of
the
glaze
on
both
sides,
but
so
far
the
integrity
of
the
mug
has
held
up
through
repeated
heatings
and
coolings
and
washings
and
bumpings.
Why
do
I
keep
using
the
mug?
Why
not?
If
it
breaks,
it
breaks.
But
if
it
breaks,
I
want
it
to
break
in
a
way
that
I
can
repair,
so
that
I
can
have
the
honor
of
saying
that
I
have
mended
the
broken,
I
have
not
disposed
of
the
disposable,
that
I
have
helped
hold
back
for
a
moment
an
iota
of
entropy
and
the
dissolving
of
the
world.
The
mug
also,
frankly,
reminds
me
of
myself—aging
with
fissures
and
doing
what
I
can
to
keep
things
intact
and
functional,
my
repeated
heatings
and
coolings
and
washings
and
bumpings.
What
a
rickety,
rackety
system
we
sport—no
wonder
we
want
titanium
exoskeletons
to
relieve
the
jury-rigged
bone-bucket
from
the
pull
of
gravity
and
the
pelting
of
the
world.
But
then
there
is
the
black
corvid
blazened
into
the
salt
glaze—inquisitor
of
the
world,
unknotter
of
problems,
rider
of
thermals,
dark
heart
of
dark
tales,
trickster
creator.
Take
heart
from
that,
I
think
as
I
drink.
I
must
take
heart
from
that,
I
think,
or
else
all
in
me
on
the
verge
of
dying
(as
it
is
always
on
the
verge
of
dying)
will
die—life
now
is
as
much
the
careful
shepherding
of
the
fine
crack
as
it
is
the
exuberant
pouring-in
and
downing
and
quickening
of
the
dark
heat.
Each
morning
the
mug
and
I
face
the
challenge
together.
Crack?
Still
sealed.
Coffee?
The
aromatic
volatiles
do
their
work.
Words?
Still
coming,
still
good—life
still
has
meaning,
trickster
and
thermals
at
full
throttle.
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