*
THE DOVE AND THE CROW
Gliding softly through the clouds like a sunray on a grey morning, the dove descended towards her nest in the banyan tree. In her beak were tightly held two grains gathered from a nearby field, and in her eyes was a liquid light, almost like a squint, from the concentration of her desire to get home for her eggs.
As she reached within sight of the tree, she inclined on her shoulder, to the left, opened her wings wide and embraced the air, as though she was about to settle on the firmament. Her eyes were intent and her heart felt the pull of home. The light of the day shone across her neck like a smile.
Before her now stood the taller branches of the banyan tree. Only a little while ago had she ascended into the air from the cluster of leaves on the edge of the biggest branches of the banyan. But, somehow, the leaves seemed different, they seemed to have been parted from above.
The concentration of the light in the dove’s eyes nearly tore the air, as she quickly wheeled and made an effort to dive into the pit for there was the sign, the sure sign, of the crow’s approach towards her nest. And this crow was the sworn enemy of her eggs, the vandal, the destroyer, who had twice before killed her young ones just before they had been born. He always came from the top of the tree because he knew that her husband, the He-dove slept near the base of the tree in a little nest on a cavity of the main trunk.
She tore through as though her second sight, and her mother love, had combined to make her the vehicle of flight itself. And what looked like a nose dive became a safe landing on the top of the tree.
She sat on a strong twig, folded her wings and tried to collect herself together. A thin gauze of confusion covered her and her body trembled in spite of her will to remain calm. From what secret source of energy arose the passion, she knew not, but in her nerves, from deep beneath her flesh, there arose tremors which disturbed the even flow of her breath and the usual peace of her presence.
She cooed.
Immediately she heard the caw caw of her enemy, the crow, from below.
The ugly eater of dirt had surely destroyed her eggs. She fluttered and cooed.
The crow caw-cawed and was heard to hop away. Collecting herself together, she peered into the pit below her and with the concentration of instinct, saw her nest. The two eggs she had been hatching lay, grey-white. Perhaps, they were safe. She had come in time.
There was no breath in her to wait. She darted to the branch on which, among the leaves, nestled her little home.
The crow cawed defiantly, even as he hopped a little way away from the branch.
Shivering through fear and trembling on the borders of hope, the mother dove walked to her nest. And, blind, but with her nerves taut, she spread her wings to feel the contours of her eggs beneath the warm down of her belly. Warm were the eggs beneath her safe, untouched. She had come in time, before the crow had attacked them. She cooed with satisfaction, with the instinct of the mother who finds her little ones safe after the agony of separation… She cooed deeply as she felt them near her flesh… She cooed again and spread her wings as though the little ones, still unhatched could listen…
The crow caw-cawed, even as he heard the dove coo. He wanted to frighten her, to bully her, as though to say: ‘Your eggs are safe now, but I can still get them if I like; I have a strong beak, to fight with and my claws are strong like a vulture’s.’
The mother dove cooed, this time a deep shriek of a coo, to call her husband, the sleepy lazy-bones, who had slept through the crisis, on the outpost in the cavity of the trunk of the banyan tree.
There was no answer.
She cooed again, more shrilly.
The crow caw-cawed to drown her soft voice.
She felt helpless. But the eggs were safe near the belly and she spread her wings wide and, looking this side and that, she sat, on the defensive, alert, equal to the
THE DOVE AND THE CROW
Gliding softly through the clouds like a sunray on a grey morning, the dove descended towards her nest in the banyan tree. In her beak were tightly held two grains gathered from a nearby field, and in her eyes was a liquid light, almost like a squint, from the concentration of her desire to get home for her eggs.
As she reached within sight of the tree, she inclined on her shoulder, to the left, opened her wings wide and embraced the air, as though she was about to settle on the firmament. Her eyes were intent and her heart felt the pull of home. The light of the day shone across her neck like a smile.
Before her now stood the taller branches of the banyan tree. Only a little while ago had she ascended into the air from the cluster of leaves on the edge of the biggest branches of the banyan. But, somehow, the leaves seemed different, they seemed to have been parted from above.
The concentration of the light in the dove’s eyes nearly tore the air, as she quickly wheeled and made an effort to dive into the pit for there was the sign, the sure sign, of the crow’s approach towards her nest. And this crow was the sworn enemy of her eggs, the vandal, the destroyer, who had twice before killed her young ones just before they had been born. He always came from the top of the tree because he knew that her husband, the He-dove slept near the base of the tree in a little nest on a cavity of the main trunk.
She tore through as though her second sight, and her mother love, had combined to make her the vehicle of flight itself. And what looked like a nose dive became a safe landing on the top of the tree.
She sat on a strong twig, folded her wings and tried to collect herself together. A thin gauze of confusion covered her and her body trembled in spite of her will to remain calm. From what secret source of energy arose the passion, she knew not, but in her nerves, from deep beneath her flesh, there arose tremors which disturbed the even flow of her breath and the usual peace of her presence.
She cooed.
Immediately she heard the caw caw of her enemy, the crow, from below.
The ugly eater of dirt had surely destroyed her eggs. She fluttered and cooed.
The crow caw-cawed and was heard to hop away. Collecting herself together, she peered into the pit below her and with the concentration of instinct, saw her nest. The two eggs she had been hatching lay, grey-white. Perhaps, they were safe. She had come in time.
There was no breath in her to wait. She darted to the branch on which, among the leaves, nestled her little home.
The crow cawed defiantly, even as he hopped a little way away from the branch.
Shivering through fear and trembling on the borders of hope, the mother dove walked to her nest. And, blind, but with her nerves taut, she spread her wings to feel the contours of her eggs beneath the warm down of her belly. Warm were the eggs beneath her safe, untouched. She had come in time, before the crow had attacked them. She cooed with satisfaction, with the instinct of the mother who finds her little ones safe after the agony of separation… She cooed deeply as she felt them near her flesh… She cooed again and spread her wings as though the little ones, still unhatched could listen…
The crow caw-cawed, even as he heard the dove coo. He wanted to frighten her, to bully her, as though to say: ‘Your eggs are safe now, but I can still get them if I like; I have a strong beak, to fight with and my claws are strong like a vulture’s.’
The mother dove cooed, this time a deep shriek of a coo, to call her husband, the sleepy lazy-bones, who had slept through the crisis, on the outpost in the cavity of the trunk of the banyan tree.
There was no answer.
She cooed again, more shrilly.
The crow caw-cawed to drown her soft voice.
She felt helpless. But the eggs were safe near the belly and she spread her wings wide and, looking this side and that, she sat, on the defensive, alert, equal to the
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