One morning I was sitting on my front porch and a very large crow landed in the dogwood tree in our front yard. He was raising a ruckus about something. He faced the street in front of our house and ceaselessly cawed. I talk to crows because they are so smart, I believe they understand me. At the very least, I think they can tell by the tone of my voice that I love them and I mean them no harm. So I asked the crow, "Do you have something to tell me?" He remained on the branch of the dogwood tree for a few more seconds yelling at the street and then he flew away.
I sat there, taking in the crisp morning air when I noticed something on the street. I put on my glasses and discovered it was a dead possum.
I went inside, put on some gloves and got a plastic bag in order to collect the possum's body. As I went outside, I noticed the person across the street in their car getting ready to back out of their driveway. This would almost certainly have caused further ruination to the poor possum's body. I rushed over to the possum's side, holding up my hand for the person to stop. Which they did. I gathered the body in the plastic bag. It was not completely taken by the process of rigor mortis. The blood was bright red. It seemed to me that this possum had been hit fairly recently.
I carried her lifeless body to the backyard and began digging a grave underneath a giant pine tree. I kept hitting roots and decided to dig around them. In this way, I sculpted an earthen cradle with a canopy of roots. I burned some sage and smoked the newly dug environs. I burned a candle and dropped some tobacco into the hole as a blessing. I removed the possum from the plastic, wrapped her in soft red cloth and tucked her into her resting place. She seemed comfortable there. As I covered her body with dirt, I began to cry. I apologized for the harsh end to which her life had come. I thanked her for her life. I told her I love her. And the tears flowed.
Once her body was covered, I heaped a pile of pine needles on top of her grave and placed some pine cones across the top. I put a piece of a cinder block at the foot of the grave. A fence stands at her head. So it is as if she has a headboard and a footboard to her bed underneath the tall pine tree in our backyard.
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Towards the end of winter this year, I was awakened by a very rambunctious crow right outside my bedroom window. I dressed to go outside and see what the commotion was about. I discovered the crow was yelling at a possum in a tree. This went on for a long time, long enough for me to grab my phone and make a video of it. It seemed to me that the crow did not like the possum very much and was telling it to go away. The possum seemed nonplussed. Eventually the crow flew away and the possum ambled down out of the tree and on her way.
In the Spring, a baby possum found her way into our house. There was evidence that she had been making nightly stops to feast on dog food left in a bowl on the kitchen floor. My ally captured her and put her in a cardboard box with a little towel and some bits of food. We pondered what to do with her. Ultimately, we simply set her free in our backyard, which, even though we live by a street that is frequented by automobiles, provides a nice habitat for possums and rabbits and the like.
The next night, she returned. We captured her again, and again we set her free in the morning. I named this baby possum Sweet Sally Possum. I loved her. My ally and I continued this catch and release ritual with Sally until my ally decided it was time to set her free in a park. He captured her in a Have-a-Heart trap and drove her to a nice park with lots of trees and a stream running through it. I was a little bit sad about this move. At least if she remained in our backyard she would be safe, I thought. There was no harm in having her come in for dog food treats, I thought. I tried leaving dog food treats for her in the backyard. But if I failed at my task, she would return to the dog food bowl in the kitchen.
After Sally was taken away, another possum began to come in. He liked to show his teeth more than Sally, so I named him Petey. We played catch and release with Petey a few times before my ally drove him to the park as well.
I relate the story of the crow and possum and of Sally and Petey to you because I find it meaningful that this year has been bookmarked by episodes including them. A crow yelling at a possum in a tree, a crow yelling at a possum in the street, baby possums hanging out in our backyard, making nightly visits, and an adult possum buried in our backyard under a tall pine tree. There is no way to know if the possum I buried was Petey or Sally. But I honor them daily as I visit the possum's grave. The possums and the crows ushered in delight and tears. Both are necessary for my survival. I am grateful for this passage of time demarked by these beings and the quiet moments shared with Possum and Crow.
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