LaBelleIzzy

I am a crow— for my full mouth Grandmother Spider gifted me my black and my embers, my mantle of smoke. I am story-teller, wind-bound, the voice over snow fields to guide the cold dead to rest. But winter stilled my spirit, withered me into a being of sticks and branches, no bird of prey but a cold and bitter wight fleshless and picked clean by scavengers. I build my stories again like late-winter bonfires, breathe my smoke like rising thunderclouds to fill my mouth again with carrion calls and summon the fire to me again. I contain all the cosmos, blossom darkly above the white fields, breathing deep the strength of my new wing-bea