The Scent of Books

• The Raven hates waiting, but he does •

He wanders to all the places she's been,
then to all the places she will be.
He frowns deeply,
it's a spiral of locations. Repetitive.
She seems to have confined herself,
mimicking the pattern of crows so loyally.

There are two places she seems to frequent the most.
The first place is her abode,
which leads to inquires.
How exactly did two crows give birth to a Raven?
It's both astonishing,
and disappointing.
He shuts his eyes.
He listens.

The mother wishes for her daughter and husband's happiness, doing what is expected from a housewife without complaint, with understanding and patience and a smile with no falter. She likes knitting and watching old dramas, she converses with neighbors in the same kind tone everyday. But she wants to drink and smoke like in her youth, she wants to feel the high of drugs again. She dreams of having a different and better daughter, a bigger house, she wants more of everything. Just one more night of gambling and she'll be a millionare, no one will notice a few more dollars gone, when everyone is asleep she'll-

He switches perspectives.

The father loves his wife and child, he works hard everyday, a proud owner of a delivery company, he is fair and favored by all his employees, he is considerate of others. But he loves another woman as well, he convinces himself that it can't be helped because he's a man, he's male, it's just the way he is, an instinct, and she doesn't care about him having a family. It's just so perfect, she's so perfect and he wants to be with her more so he stays out late-

He involuntarily raises a glove,
so very close to erasing.
But he decides otherwise,
for her.
She will come to see these things,
all in due time.
Then she may decide on it herself.
He continues walking.

The second place, he mistakes for a factory.
The caws of its inhabitants seem industrial,
as if they were producing something,
They recieve a supply, then begin molding for a result.
Then he realizes the said product are more crows.

A school, he concludes.
Though the structure looks more like a castle,
young crows litter about the insides.
He walks the halls,
acknowledging but not liking.
There's no discipline,
no filtering of actions,
no sense of order.
Hints of knowledge,
but no passion to learn.
The idea that she has been subject to such a place,
displeases him.
He thinks of alternatives of she wishes to continue,
preferably a more efficient education.

Black clad fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose,
frustration slowly boiling beneath the usually emotionless demeanor.
Though he has no one to blame other than himself,
or perhaps it is the one who caught his interest to blame.

Regardless,
he waits.
Which is something he despises doing,
he who is used to having not to wait for.
He could be brash,
a simple wave of his hand would be enough.
But that would be immature, and he wouldn't stoop so low.
Even if he has to reorient himself with the concept of time that crows follow,
he would wait.

When the sun rises,
crows fly from their nests.
Their caws clumping together.
Ideas, truths, desires, identities.
He follows the soft croak of the little raven,
now able to discern it from the noise.

She thinks, but the thoughts are not hers.
It's not her questions, it's a script of what crows deem right to think.
She thinks of what insignificant variations can be made from the looping pattern of crows,
a pattern she tries to jam into her skull.
What to do to bury her deeper into normalcy.
She's a crow.
She's a crow.
She's a crow.