Jackdaw

A jackdaw lands on my bird feeder in winter. He slams into the tiny table, spilt ink, sends everything flying, and then picks around on the grass and takes what he wants. Smash and grab.

He has no mind of the conventions of the bird table. He shares none of the politeness of the sparrows and the blue tits (not the robins, they are feisty).

I watch him with his cool blue eye, which he wields like hagstone. They are such strange eyes. What does he see with those strange eyes?

Odin hanging from Yggdrasil

Hades and his Asphodel Meadows

A silver coin for Charon to carry you safely across the Styx

He is out of his element on the bird feeder. His feathers oil-slick black. His little silver cape. A phantom.

He never settles, has a wry smile. What are you doing here, little Churchyard Crow? Little piece of the underworld, inked out on my bird feeder, seeing, always seeing.

What uncomfortable truths have you come to bear witness to? For those are surely eyes that see to the heart of things.

There is glass between us, it fogs up as I breathe. I make a little mist for him to dance in and he seems happier beneath the veil. He looks up at me. His head cocks briefly to one side ‘….what do we have here?’

His critical eye suddenly a jewellers loupe, turning me quickly over to check weight, size, clarity, I am found wanting, ordinary, and then he is in the weeds again, taking everything he wants.

Maybe one day he will whisper me his secrets. But not today.