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Nest

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Raven, watching the universe go by, sits in her nest made of the twigs of the world tree.

Nest where Raven sits waiting.

The acacia, the baobab, the fig, the oak, the cedar, the pine. Raven picks and chooses the twigs and branches, on which she waits for the next world to start. She adds a sprig of wheat and some of barley, she adds the puff ball flowers of the acacia tree, and waits for time to start moving, one way or another, again.

A small picture, nearly square, of a bundle of twigs. The twigs lay horizontal across the picture, near the top of the frame, twigs are all woven together forming a nest. Some of the twigs, the fig and the banyan are in brown, ash is in blue and oak is still in F lead pencil. While the twigs on ending on the left of the screen are cut or broken off, some of the twigs on the right have small buds forming. The twigs are not neatly bundled, but there is a clear pattern to them. Through the centre of them runs a blue line of ash, but twisted strong about is a brown line of banyan. When the christians tell a story of how their world began the people, the first people, fell out of favour of their god, and there was a flood, and only two of each creature were saved. These creatures were on a boat, and it rained for fourty days and forty nights, and the world was covered with water. And then the rain stopped, and the man, Noah, who had put himself in charge again, sent out a bird to find land. But the first bird he sent out was the raven, and she never returned.
A bundle of twigs of oak and ash, of fig and banyan, set upon nothing
The one and the same bundle of twigs it is, but now in ink and pencil on a beige paper, no coloured pencil at all. Here, where we are now, in this world where time has not begun to be one way or another just yet beige is the colour of before things were. The twigs in the bundle are the same twigs, set in their places the same, and woven just so, but they are now another thing also, the twigs of the soetdoring, black with long white thorns, thorns in twos, then one, then one, then two, that is how they are set about the twigs, the thorns that bind the bundle tight. See the bundle a little closer now, and in amongst the sticks are springs of barley and oats and some acacia leaves. Circles set about, here and there, maybe they be grapes for Dionysus, but no, there are no gods about, not now, there is not yet time in which to make a god. Later when our circles are coloured in yellow, when the world begins to move and grow they will be the soft puffball flowers of the acacia tree. But, dear reader, this is not yet so, and only you and I know it will be. The others will find out soon about the flowers, what the flowers are, that they are part of a spell. But what I will tell you now just us two will know, that as the flowers go flying they spread yellow pollen dust across the worlds. Those little flowers, they are one of the gifts of life. Now you can tell our secret or you cannot. Ask the rabbits, if you should tell, they say to tell, ask the hare, hare says to speak wisely, but ask me now who is it, is it rabbit or hare who is in my pot? I will not tell.
Add the soetdoring, the acacia tree, set upon the twilight and the shade
Here it is again that bundle of twigs of both ash and oak and acacia, but now it is a picture on paper, but in between the twigs the paper has been cut out, and we can see though the spaces between the twigs and we see black. Maybe it is dark when we peak between the twigs of the nest of the raven who watches over the universe, maybe there isn't enough light to see, maybe when the universe springs into being there will not be light. I know? Shall I tell you that also? I think not. You will find out late. But doesn't that black look soft and welcoming and warm? But now we see the ends of the twigs on the left, they are broken and white, bone white, they are no longer twigs, but they are bone. Is it cold old dead brittle bone to make a nest pokey and uncomfortable and for little wolves to chew on? Is it fresh bone, young and spry and with plenty of bends, waiting to be alive, again. You can guess, I know you know. Or you can ask a rabbit, or a hare, the one that is not in my pot. But the rabbit might play a trick on you and not tell true, and the bunny rabbit might play a trick on me and not be in my pot. So much for the bones though, whose ever they are, they in my pot. If you ask just right, you can always ask the bones you know. Do they tell true? It depends who is asking, doesn't it? The little seeds are barley and wheat, sprigs and leaves and seeds, but now they are feathers as black as a raven's wings, soft as silk are those feathers. Are the raven's feathers to feather the nest for her own rest? Or are they feathers of a raven before, who is not in this story. Perhaps a raven that is resting evermore? That's a good question to ask, but you cannot ask Raven you know, because this world is silent and there are no words for her to hear. Raven sits and raven waits, and questions about her feathers will have to wait also.
Add the white of bone and black of feather,
Ah, here it is, a nest for a raven's rest. With twigs of ash and oak and fig and banyan and baobab and thorny soetdoring twigs, and millet and barley and wheat and rye and gold flowers of the acacia tree, a nest of seeds a nest of bones and a nest of feathers, feathers that may or may not belong to this raven, or a raven before (of whom we do not speak) or perhaps she just stole them and took them for hers, she is a raven after all. We look in between those twigs and we see a world of colours and light and black and shapes and things just waiting to be, things waiting that raven has stored away in her Raven's nest. Just for safekeeping, you know. The picture is of the ravens nest horizontal across the page, nearer to the top, the nest is woven of branches with twigs and seads and feathers and pollen drawn in with black ink. There are cut-outs through the paper showing a multicoloured background if you look through. The paper on which the nest is drawn is a light brown, some sort of nearly yellow but not baby-poo colour and bright white.
Add a little wheat, a little barley, a little millet, a little corn, add the flowers of the acacia tree.

Raven has her nest, we have a spell, but for now, I am tired, shall we sleep under the soetdoring tree.

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