The Bluestocking 2023-24

Rowan Woloviec Grade 12 Crow

She resembled her favourite bird, the way her haunting beauty intrigued me. Deep ebony wings spread out to create a canvas full black against the melancholy sky, each feather falling perfectly into place, shimmering against the dampened sun. Her features, some mundane sublimity, were perfectly sculpted so that, should you have a moment of time, you could admire the way each mark was purposefully placed, each line on her face having a distinct purpose to add to her overwhelming exquisiteness. The way her flight was controlled- intelligent, each flap of her elegant wings carefully considered beforehand, her pattern seeming to be almost weightless. It was her piercing gaze, just sharp enough to catch your attention yet soft enough to keep it, the way her stately brown eyes seemed to sparkle when she got excited. Perhaps it was her eerie call, slicing through silence like a hot knife, the dull thrumming of monotonous speech coming to a grating halt at her voice. The way she commanded respect in the most mellow of ways, her proud demeanour second only to her own goodwill. The crow was a magnificent specimen, something so alluring about her simple, distinguished beauty. My love resembled her favourite bird, the way that she so effortlessly ascended high above all other creatures, not flaunting her ability nor hiding it. She resembled her favourite bird, the way that I couldn’t look away.

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