Marie-Pierre Duclos (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} duclos) wrote,@ 2008-01-21 03:52:00 |
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Chasing Crows - outside Toulouse, 1912
"That - is - the - last - straw! Marie-Pierre, go outside! Go! Go scare the crows!"
Tanta Elodie shoved him unceremoniously out the door and closed the bottom half, hanging out of the top to watch him and made sure he did as directed.
He knew better than to disobey while she was watching, so he scuffed along the path out of the yard, paused to break a stick from the chestnut-tree, and headed to the wheat-field, head hung low.
He didn't see what was so bad about the crows. It wasn't like they ate all of it, and their village had never gone hungry - it didn't seem fair to chase the crows away all the time.
It was kind of fun, though. The widest row in the strip-farmed field ran right down the center, and he ran right down it as well, swinging his stick like a sword and whooping "Go away, go away, find another dinner!" in alternating Occitan and French. The crows scattered before him, rising to circle in the clear afternoon sky.
At the end of the row, Marie-Pierre tripped over a clod and went headlong, clutching his stick like a lifeline and rolling until he hit a bush.
That seemed like a good place to stop.
If he leaned all the way to his left, he could just see their house; if Tanta came out, he would see her before she saw him, and he could get back up and scare crows again. Right now - he lay on his back, watching the birds wheel and glide overheard.
They seemed to fly without moving their wings. Effortless. It was pretty, the way they were their own silhouettes as they moved through the air, like shadows on a great blue screen.
He wondered what the word for las gralhas was in French. He hoped it was prettier than the Occitan. That just sounded like the noise they made. They ought to have a name that talked about how pretty they were, pretty and black and free.
"That - is - the - last - straw! Marie-Pierre, go outside! Go! Go scare the crows!"
Tanta Elodie shoved him unceremoniously out the door and closed the bottom half, hanging out of the top to watch him and made sure he did as directed.
He knew better than to disobey while she was watching, so he scuffed along the path out of the yard, paused to break a stick from the chestnut-tree, and headed to the wheat-field, head hung low.
He didn't see what was so bad about the crows. It wasn't like they ate all of it, and their village had never gone hungry - it didn't seem fair to chase the crows away all the time.
It was kind of fun, though. The widest row in the strip-farmed field ran right down the center, and he ran right down it as well, swinging his stick like a sword and whooping "Go away, go away, find another dinner!" in alternating Occitan and French. The crows scattered before him, rising to circle in the clear afternoon sky.
At the end of the row, Marie-Pierre tripped over a clod and went headlong, clutching his stick like a lifeline and rolling until he hit a bush.
That seemed like a good place to stop.
If he leaned all the way to his left, he could just see their house; if Tanta came out, he would see her before she saw him, and he could get back up and scare crows again. Right now - he lay on his back, watching the birds wheel and glide overheard.
They seemed to fly without moving their wings. Effortless. It was pretty, the way they were their own silhouettes as they moved through the air, like shadows on a great blue screen.
He wondered what the word for las gralhas was in French. He hoped it was prettier than the Occitan. That just sounded like the noise they made. They ought to have a name that talked about how pretty they were, pretty and black and free.