Crowded Conch in a Crow’s Living Ascent

Harlow lives.
In the pit of what was once known to the everyday makings of man, now
overgrown, trees breaking through the laid concrete foundation of the town square.
Billboards stand masked by the intertwinement of vining ivys and morning glories. Old
dusted mannequins peek their noses from inside the branches of a rapidly growing
privet tree. This land once had people roaming the streets, there was even a town
trolly. But the people disregarded the land, paid no attention when the birds began
dropping dead, when the pollen from the plants began SCREAMING at them through
the allergens in the air. Instead of listening, they left.
The trash, the dirt, the grime, the exhaust eventually exhausted the land. The
pollution produced by the people, pushed the people, out and away, to new fresh land,
unaccustomed to the terror soon to be inflicted. Harlow stayed, or rather was deserted.
She had a family. Her father was some corporate guy who worked for a company
called... Monsanto? They never really got along. Harlow was always disappearing into
some tree, some greenery. She wasn't one for corporate greed and that was all that
was seen in her families scene.
Some time has gone by, 234 full moons, and 235 cycles of bleeding Harlow has
lived through since her seperation, plus the few before she decided to start taking count,
tracking her rhythms with the earth. She explored the deserted terrain extensively
before she decided to set up her camp in the old trolly. The trolly that, in fact, has never
stopped running which makes for some sort of fun. She runs the trolly occasionally,
across town, east to west. West being where the soil gets thick, and rich, the plants
grow best in the west. East is where the the land gets rocky, the soil calcified and
grainy, where the river springs.

*
 The night is encroaching, Harlow wishes to bathe. She begins to make her way
down to the creek, taking the trolly to the end of the road East, then trudging through a
tunnel of thorned sarsaparilla. The creek is springfed, self cleansing.
When the people still inhabited the land, there was a film of green sludge laying
on top the water and the banks were cluttered with bottles and bags. Harlow picked up
the bags and with time the sludge receded and the river regenerated it’s health.
Harlow likes to bathe right by where the spring bubbles so she can catch the
freshest water. She hums to the songs of the birds, while peeling rivergrass and
stringing it along her hair.
The sun is setting, the sky is orange, the kind of flooded color the sky gets before
it falls dark. Birds make their final ascents while nocturnal flying creatures make their
first. This is Harlow’s favorite part of the evening, watching the life emerge. Crows are
the most intriguing to her. When the town first went down, the abandoned streets were
flooded with crows. There was always a crow to observe. She felt as if they were
watching over her. A crow, afterall, was the creature that led her to this spring spot in
the first place.
She opens her eyes to watch as a flock of crows passes overhead. With a sound
similar to that of a snapping tree trunk, a crow is shot down. The rest are jolted, then
bolt away, all in opposite directions. T​ears falls from the corner of her hazel eyes as
they turn green and her jawline sharpens. Grey clouds flood in, trapping the remaining
colors of the sky. She plunges herself below the water sloshing her hair as bubbles of
lost breath come to the surface. Behind her eyes flash the repeating images of the crow
in the sky no longer flying. Her body thrashes. Encompassed by the emotion of such a
sight Harlow pulls herself from the riverbed and runs to the crow, water dripping from
her unclothed body…
“...I have never felt so hot in my body, the water is crisp and my body flushed.
Just as quickly as I fell under, I sprang up. I felt as if I was shot along with that crow.
The storm in my chest was quickly reflected by the sky. I saw crows from all corners of
my eye swath above the clouds and disappear. Along with riverbirds, a stork, island
parrots, and a single redbird. I ran to the crow fast as my feet could take me, my knees
even locking. I lightened my palms, taking the bird into my arms, feeling the warmth of
blood dripping down my décolletage. It isn’t but a minute that I had with the bird before I
got start running again. Something disturbed me, the sky was going off, light was
shining through spots in the clouds, like god was using a great big copy machine on us.
“But there was something else, a man, a starman. Four limbs and a head, like
me. I haven't seen another person in over 230 moon cycles. I remember them,
interacting with them. With me, with us, with that of my own kind. I love the wild, I am
wild, but I myself am tamed too, or was rather, at the time since I last saw another
human. Still am in ways, I am what I am, my body is limited, but my mind is not. Never
was, never can be as long as I listen and I follow what is shown and what I feel. That is
what the wild has taught me.
“It’s been funny, to see how the world operates without the human interference, if
left untamed. Things eventually balance out, least fluctuate like a personality.”
“I heard a voice, low and gruffy. I almost knew what the man looked like before I
saw him and I didn’t see much of him before I was running again. Bird in hands, held
close to my chest as my feet leaped fast underneath. Ducking below branches, getting
my hair torn on twigs.
Meanwhile the trees rustle just as I do, the wind is picking up, the current pushing
against me. Tripping on my own left foot I exhilarated myself into an embrace with the
lowered arm of a Pecan tree. It gave me a moment to rest and I heard a whisper:
“Don’t be scoured by the sours of unfortune.” This has happened to me a few
times before, when I hear a whisper escape from the creeping crevices of the bark on a
tree. Always a pecan tree. Always with a seemingly cryptic message. Sometimes a hard
shell to crack, but I knew just what the trunk was trying to say to me. SISU.
“I lifted my head and left a kiss. I turned my body and continued on my way
away. I heard the man not far behind me, in fact I could nearly see him beginning to
show from behind treetrunks. This forest is quiet. I don’t hear any birds, and every step
on the forest floor emanates. I have run far enough now that I don't recognize where I
am. I have run so fast, faster than I can think. The sky is turning orange and soon as I
know it the ground beneath my feet is gone, below me I see treetops, I see clouds
falling. I am not falling. I am flying... wait am I flying? The crow is flying, Rashida, I
choose to call her, wise one guiding me.
“I let go and my tensions soar off of me as I drift through the sky. And as I ride
with ease I begin to hear birds chirp, then I begin to see birds ascent from the sky,
through the clouds, a mastery of colors paint my vision. A bluebird hits my shoulder and
light falls across my face. The clouds have ceased and I see no trace of the man behind
me, nor do I feel any against arise. Rashida and I have no threat, I can hear now the
melody that the harp of harmonious living plays in my life.
“You hurt, I hurt,” I say. “You’re hurt, I will have your back. As you live, I live by
side. You’re strained, I’ll guide you. I can fly the way. I can show you new ways.
The crow speaks: “All is full of love.”