I take my daughter up to the cemetery to play. It's the playground in our neighborhood--this is such a small town we don't have a park. She really enjoys crawling over the headstones and climbing the steep steps. Our cats follow us up there and chase us all over. It's good fun.
Lately I've taken to charming the crows who call the cemetery home. One of them is a cheeky fellow, well aware of the image he makes, perching on a headstone. He only picks the most Gothic pieces in the cemetery--tall, precariously leaning slabs, or jutting obelisks. It's a beautiful picture.
The cats and the baby get a kick out of chasing the vain bird, and he enjoys tormenting them. He'll fly down quite close to one of the kitties, then swoop up in the air to land just two leaps away. Omega cries and cries, the taste of fowl strong on his little kitty tongue, but so far away!
I guess Alanis Morissette would call it "ironic," nursing a baby in a graveyard, or watching crows--long-time death symbols--toussle and play with (black, go figure) cats on top of the tombstones. I just think it's the way the world works, life embracing death, embracing play. Or maybe it's a little sad, since the only public space we have in this little town is the cemetery.
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