Dark Angel

dark-angel

Dark Angel

Daily Photo

In a crisis of faith at nineteen, calling out to God, I heard no response and thought my angels not just gone but never been.

Yesterday, as I looked across the wide valley, I saw her, a dark angel. For a moment against the sky, she hovered, strumming one solitary cry against the harp of her beak. While I watched, foolish mouth agape, she melted into clouds leaving nothing but a sense of loss. And then a realization–my angels have another shape.

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18 comments

  • Sometimes it takes years for a god to answer. Phenomenal photo! Very poetic, Here’s a link to a similar Magritte image –but I think I like yours better:
    http://imagecache5.art.com/p/LRG/8/853/12SY000Z/rene-magritte-lentree-en-scene.jpg

  • Beautiful post and photo, Kym.

  • The length on the legs, so delicate, on that bird piece is exquisite, Headwrapper. I’m deeply flattered that you even compare mine with that.

    Toni, thank you.

  • I know it’s long, but I thought you’d like it:

    Raven gazed up and down the beach. It was pretty, but lifeless. There was no one about to upset, or play tricks upon. Raven sighed. He crossed his wings behind him and strutted up and down the sand, his shiny head cocked, his sharp eyes and ears alert for any unusual sight or sound. The mountains and sea, the sky now ablaze with the sun by day and the moon and stars he had placed there, it was all pretty, but lifeless. Finally Raven cried out to the empty sky with a loud exasperated cry.

    And before the echoes of his cry faded from the shore, he heard a muffled squeak. He looked up and down the beach for its source and saw nothing. He strutted back and and forth, once, twice, three times and still saw nothing. Then he spied a flash of white in the sand.

    There, half buried in the sand was a giant clamshell. As his shadow fell upon it, he heard another muffled squeak. Peering down into the opening between the halves of the shell, he saw it was full of tiny creatures, cowering in fear at his shadow.

    Raven was delighted. Here was a break in the monotony of the day. But how was he to get the creatures to come out of their shell and play with him? Nothing would happen as long as they stayed inside the giant clamshell.

    They were not going to come out as long as they were so afraid of him. So Raven leaned over his head, close to the shell, and with all the cunning and skill of that smooth trickster’s tongue, that had so often gotten him in and out of so many misadventures during his troubled and troublesome existence, he coaxed and cajoled and coerced the little creatures to come out and play in his wonderful shiny new world.

    As you know the Raven has two voices, one harsh and strident, and the other which he used now, a seductive, bell-like croon which seems to come from the depth of the sea, or out of the cave where winds are born. It is an irresistable sound, one of the loveliest in the world.

    It wasn’t long before first one and then another of the little shell-dwellers emerged from the shell. Some scurried back when they saw the Raven, but eventually curiosity overcame their caution and all of them had crept or scrambled out.

    Very strange creatures they were: two legged like Raven, but otherwise very different. They had no feathers. Nor fur. They had no gret beak. Their skin was pale, and they were naked except for the dark hair upon round, flat-featured heads. Instead of strong wings like raven, they had think stick-like arms that waved and fluttered constantly. They were the first humans.

  • That image is completely wicked. Almost freaky.

  • I agree with forkboy. I’ve come back to look at it three times because I love the little chills it gives me.

  • Headwrapper, My god, that one is scary! When I look at the disparate elements, it seems fine but together it is spooky.

    Bubba, I love the story. Did you write it? It sounds like a Native American tale that I’ve read somewhere–just a touch of other worldliness.

    Forkboy and Kristabel, thank you very much. I like it too.

  • Hmmm… Kym.. notice the themes of Ernie’s and your blogs. Interesting. The Indians at Trinidad (Yuroks) believe that ravens are the returned souls of their ancestors.

  • Little signs all around us, there for the observant to observe. This is beautiful, Kym. (I feel so redundant always coming here and stating the obvious,–that your photos are beautiful. So I’ll also say it in Swedish this time: Det är vackert). 🙂

  • I can see why everyone thinks this is a raven but actually it is a red-tail (but I’m not against Ravens–the red-tails are though and drive them off so I can’t photograph them this time of year.)

    Indie, I’m such a raw egoist I’ll take compliments I can’t even understand;>

  • Bubba’s story is a traditional northwest native one, and there are several variations on the theme. Ravens and red tails (sorry, Ernie: CHICKEN hawks!) seem to have a border in the airspace over our house and their skirmishes are always very audible. In the warm days of early spring though, they seem to play with drawing the exact lines, testing one another’s skills of flight without any real animosity (to my eye). They’re both emblematic of Salmon Creek for me. Keepers of the sky.

    I’ve got a friend going through a visit with death right now, Kym, this “angel” was a good image for me to see today. Angels have many shapes.

  • I’m glad she helped. (and thanks for the information.)

  • Gorgeous. And yes, I think angels come in forms I don’t recognize. The one that seems to be a reoccurring angel for the Redneck and I is the white Egret.

  • very very cool shot

  • Happy Birthday (sometime this month). I just remembered you said you were a March baby! You are something to celebrate 🙂

  • Jen, The egrets are so beautiful. I can see why they would immediately become angels to you guys.

    Eric and Elizabeth, thanks.

    Indie, Thank you for the Happy Bday. It was!

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