One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow

by Olivia Hawker

But until forgiveness came, I had to run the farm on my own. There was no one else who could do it. I wasn’t afraid. I haven’t found anything yet in this life that’s worth being afraid of.

The seasons don’t cease to change because we haven’t the time to plant or tend or harvest, because grief like a hailstorm comes up sudden and frightens us with its noise. Once the storm rolls on, the fields remain, and life goes on, whatever we prefer.

all living things also stood upon the spiral, as she stood now, and moved along the curve as life directed them. At the point of the ram’s horn was death, and all things flowed toward it. But the edge of the spiral, where horn sprouted from animal, forever remade itself—always new. From blood and air, from breath and bone, the horn generated and curled. The spiral grew wider every season, but death was always at its center.

One for the blackbird, one for the crow, one for the cutworm, and one to grow.

God is said to be great, the worm told me, so great you cannot see Him. But God is small, with hands like threads, and they reach for you everywhere you go. The hands touch everything—even you, even me. What falls never falls; what grows has grown a thousand times, and will live a thousand times more. Wherever hand touches hand, the Oneness comes to stay. Once God has made a thing whole, it cannot be broken again.