I’m taking care of a bunny named Otis, his fur is long white with oatmeal spots. As my fingers dip past the plushness, I become aware of his bones. His muscles are chiffon drapery between his skeleton and skin, following the bumps of his spine I think about mortality. The blackness of his eyes seem to dissect my soul. I’m left wondering if I’m a good person. Could this bunny measure my karmic weight?
I stopped multiple times through my walk to sit and watch crows. There aren’t many in Toronto. I hear them rarely perched in trees, but I never see even a glint of their iridescent feathers. In Vancouver, they seem to be abundant. The first crow I saw close up was upturning dirt under a large oak tree, looking for insects. When a young squirrel came by to introduce itself, the crow ignored it. The squirrel didn’t seem offended, it found a large stick and entertained itself. They stayed in each other’s company for a while. When the crow flew off, I started my walk again. With every distant cry, I wanted them to be calling for me. With every crow that landed near me, I wanted it to be the first crow visiting again.
Crows seem Victorian. The side to side motion of their tails and the high tilt of their beaks as they look back on their watcher. I imagine a woman, eldest in her line, her father has promised her to an old man thrice her age; in hopes of getting a portion of his shipping trade fortune. It’s the 1900s, in a far corner of a saloon, women are bent whispering over their tea. She hears of a witch living in the walls of a library. To escape her arranged marriage, the woman brings the witch an emerald necklace. Her father had bought it on auction, originally it was worn by an Indian woman in Bombay. The witch turns her into a crow, and now I see her strutting through Queen Elizabeth Park. She is immortal, a matriarch, the wise crow woman.
My fantasies are fuelled by years of reader inserts, the plaguing of fanfiction, and the countless pages of religious epic poetry. Crows are fantastical, they are friends of witches and bearers of important messages; always the turning point of plot. If a local were to listen to my ramblings about crows; a bird as common as the clusters of pigeons dominating the paths through Grange Park, they might laugh or awe at my whimsy. I’ll let you know that I think pigeons are magical in their own right.
While on the way down from Queen Elizabeth Park, I decided to find a tree to smoke under. I’ve been trying to quit, fearing the black lungs I’ve seen on TV since I was a child, or even more fear inducing, staining on my lips and fingers. Vanity is a curse that will continue to haunt my existence, I welcome her with an open heart and banquet feasts. The perfect tree overlooked a duck pond and a large field with a scattering of trees. A couple laid on a picnic blanket, they rolled from back to stomach through the hours and sometimes got up to move the blanket from sun to shade. A small root from my favourite tree laid over her larger sisters, creating his cradle of soft earth. The tree itself slanted over in the relaxed fashion of a wing chair. There was an elevation of dirt for my over stuffed purse. There was no need to shift my weight or stretch my legs or move stray rocks. It was a perfect day.
love,
gitanjali d. bal
instagram:@g.dvya