3 at a time. Johnson

First was the flap of the wings of a black solitary raven in the matching sky. She had traveled an empty space to spit the sun on first contact with something other than darkness. with in the wisdom of those eyes she flew with the 1st thought of sight on along a river of nothing until her claws were touched by welcoming dampness. marshes out of no where performed a welcoming mat for the bringer of light. immediately she spit out  the sun from her beak and cawed the first song  and moving her legs and chest to dance the first dance. the marches blessed the sun settled in what appeared to be the heavens. enough and not too much so as to keep the earth in warmth. welcome to the 1st day.

it was many years later when she raven wore her wings about her as a dress and walked barefooted, toes in the grass of the earth.

Certainly the light was spotted far off calling out the inquiring intelligences. They clamoured and they flew they materialized on the living mountain known as the first of land. watching the waters ,who knew it was blue. the seven muses in their robes sat by the rays of the burning flames and it was then that some began to notice they were not the same.


My daughters are not my own since i’ve buried them at the roots of an agar tree deep in the forest. they walked with me into the thick vines and high vegetation and they come to me now and then with their messages. I am man who could take a life and turn it to immortality. they wondered why i did not join them. why I changed my mind. how come I  would choose to sit at a table in a chair with common breakfast and watch the world change daily in an organic way. organic has carbon and certainly will want to break down one day succumbing to the subtle flame. I say nothing to this. But i listen. I watch their pictures and listen to their voices when they come to sit with me.

Eventually I am sure I will grow tired and death will hold the curtain for me. but for now I am too curious for life. I thrive on the living and although I have taught those who were my children to take time and lose it, to take time and bend it, ignore time and borrow it. I am too akin to seasons and rhythms and wish to live with the tides following the will of the moon. I do this by an act of participation, empathic to life, and the story of how one comes and goes. I go the the register alone and he does not ask me where are my children. So consider it an exchange, the two for one.

Live my children in a myriad of ways. open doors and close them. but live and don’t leave her till you have grown too curious about the realm on the other side. for this is your birth right. children of the black bird.


– Sabrina