The Crow

Oil on wood, 51 x 40 cm, 2026.

 

Thoughts from Last December

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There had been weeks of astonishing cold, an expanse of white that froze the soul.
The somber sky had descended into my thoughts, and the house felt like the only inhabited place on earth.

I thought of the birds of summer, of their songs scattered through the mornings. Even those early crows that once accompanied me each day, perched on the bare branches of the poplar across the street, had disappeared.

— Where are they?
— Perhaps in Costa Rica, he said.  They left with us, but they never came back.

This morning, from my armchair, a book open in my hands, I lifted my eyes. The crow was there, on those same bare branches of the poplar across the street, watching me as before.

Then I understood. It had never gone anywhere. Its routine had remained intact.

It was I who had been absent
from the armchair,
from the mornings,
from the silent encounters with myself.