Lately, I seem to have a thing for our feathered friends, especially the ones cloaked in black.
There’s the image that greets me every morning on the front cover of my current journal,
and yesterday I finally brought home another fellow I’ve been courting for awhile.
I first saw him when I walked through the doors of The Only One Under the Sun in Carstairs way back in August.
We made eye contact – okay, to be completely frank, I stared at him quite boldly for a socially unacceptable amount of time. It must have shook him up a bit because the next time I visited he had deserted the premises and no matter how many times I popped in, hoping to surprise him, he was not to be found.
I walked into the store and there he stood, in the exact same spot. The six months between my first visit and that moment of reconnection collapsed into a fine mist.
His name is Krahe.
Which I assume means ‘Crow’ in German since his creator is a German artist by the name of Hurll Meier.
Isn’t he . . . intense?
I chatted with Shirley, the owner of the store, while I sized him up again. She told me that a lot of other people had their eye on him, including none other than Sheldon Valleau of Polyjesters fame, whose world-famous Cafe Radio was right next door.
Sheldon was mere steps away.
He could come over any time he felt a hankering to commune with my melancholy, shiny-eyed friend. And, on any one of those visits, he might decide that was the day to take Krahe home.
I made small talk with Shirley while I mentally calculated what was in my ‘something special’ savings envelope. I learned that she had a few more copies of Krahe in the back, but the company that sold the prints was going out of business so once her stash was gone, I might never lay eyes on my brooding friend again.
My calculations complete and any guilt I might have felt about swiping Krahe from under Sheldon’s nose alleviated (after all, there were a few more in the back of Shirley’s store) I emptied my wallet.
Right down to the last few coins.
And the lonely half of an earring pair.
I resisted the urge to push open the Cafe Radio door on my way to the car, arm in wing with my fine feathered friend, and sing a little nanananapoopoo ditty. It was noon and, as I said, my wallet was empty. I did not need to be tantalized by their huge bowls of delicious soup or their decadent desserts.
Krahe’s in my office for the moment until I figure out the perfect perch for him in my home. Alfred’s already told him his sorry story while he waits for a follicle transplant and has warned him of the Devil Cat who thinks she rules the premises.
But something tells me Krahe has nothing to fear from Kally.
Or anyone, for that matter.
He’s a poet/philosopher/musician Crow unto himself.