Watching Eyes

The air was still and quiet. Everything in the world seemed to be holding its breath at the threat of the coming snow. Temperatures had warmed up, as if something, somewhere, was brave enough to poke its head out of its hole in an attempt to gather food or to simply catch a breath of fresh air. Fresh air after being trapped in stale, cold dirt holes and dens for weeks.

I had come out that afternoon to look at the tree trunks that had been fell earlier in the fall. It was warm enough for me to chunk those old bones into logs that I could use to heat my house in the coming cold snap. Something strange hung in the air, foreboding and ominous.

Physical work usually brought comfort. There had always been peace in the sweat of hard work, but this time it was strangely uncomfortable. Groundhog day had come and passed. Shadow chasing had not ever been a matter of seasonal importance to me. I had always looked for the red robin to come back as my sign for spring.

You see, robins are messengers that spring is afoot and that new life is about to come forth. A time of celebration is at hand, indeed, when the robins are seen. Winter has retreated with more certainty than any groundhog could ever tell us. Certainly the robin is a warm and welcome thing to see in any story near the end.

As I pick up and stack the pieces of logs that now lay about the ground as so many scattered bones, there is a sudden and heavy, loud flashing of wings followed closely by branches complaining and straining under considerable weight. Looking around I find the newcomers to my yard. I find them due to the light glinting off of feathers. Oily black feathers reflecting white light as if from the edges of long scythe-like blades.

A chill, a new chill ran down my spine as I took stock of the coal black eyes of the coal black birds now watching me. I could feel those eyes, devoid of feeling, piercing into my soul as those two birds, my silent companions, watched me.

“What is it you two know that I should?” I asked them, not expecting an answer. Recalling the fields of the dead in Kosovo, again I asked my two dark messengers, “What can you see coming that my stocking up heating wood cannot prepare me for? Who is coming to visit?” Still, expecting no answer, I looked to the two. Nothing, no answer from those two … pffft, they're birds, just birds, right?

Right?