The Crows

Before there was a Maison, there was a watching.

They arrived first—cloaked in shadow, heavy with memory.
If you’re quiet enough, you’ll catch it: the stillness before a truth lands.

Crows don’t caw for chaos.
They guard what’s buried.
They are the black box of the bloodline.

Grandaddy never told stories.
He nodded toward the window once and said:
"That’s the family, boy. They fly where truth needs to land."

That’s it.
No sermon. No folklore.
Just knowing.

They perched when I spoke the name Djordje aloud—before it was mine by law, spirit, or blood.

They circled when I walked away from places I outgrew.
They stayed when the writing got hard.

In this Maison, crows aren’t bad omens.
They’re elders in flight.
Carolyn in the branches.
Grandaddy in the rafters, watching.

If you hear wings over your shoulder, don’t duck.

Straighten up.
Come correct.

They’re not here to scare you.
They’re here to remind you.