Becoming a Crow
I see shiny metal on the ground. It catches the light and practically screams, “Hellloooooo—are you going to pick me up?” I listen to shiny metal. I pick up shiny metal. Could make something nice. Could make something reallllll pretty.
This piece looks like it fell off a hose-lay contraption from the Navy days—1970s, maybe. The '70s left a lot of shiny metal lying around out here for me, a newfound crow with a good eye. Shiny metal in the pocket now. Oh look—over there! A blown fuse, probably from Crunch, the not-quite-shiny tractor. Mine now. Also in the pocket. Shiny metal belongs in the shed.
In the she shed—my shed—trash finds a second life. But a little work comes first. File, file, file. Just like sharpening a Pulaski. I know how to do that. File until it looks right. Want sharp edges? Add a dark bead—keep that little bit of intensity alive. Let it bite. Want it smooth? Bring it to life with something soft. Maybe those pink, pearly beads I found in the bottom of the food crate. Shiny metal knows what it wants to be. I just listen. I let my hands follow.
How to add the bead? Shiny metal already told me. In the corner of the shed, there’s a tag barely clinging to the side of the old 5-kilowatt generator—just waiting to be snipped. Wire. Twist, twist. Wrap, wrap. The bead’s got a home now.
The soldering iron? Falling apart. Not shiny at all. But it still heats up enough to melt metal, and that’s all that matters. Melt, melt, melt. Liquified shiny metal drips onto wire, sealing everything in place. I grin like a crow with a cracker.
When it’s done, it’s still shiny metal, sure—but it’s more now. Not just scraps. I wrap it up in tinfoil, tape it shut, and scribble a friend’s name across it in Sharpie chicken-scratch. Off it goes on the Ross Sea Express. Pitbull might’ve claimed “Mr. Worldwide,” but these shiny metal pieces? They’re claiming Mrs. Continental.
A wise man once said, “One man’s trash, that’s another man’s come-up.” Macklemore, if you didn’t already know. Shiny metal sings that song. It is that mentality. Nothing fancy. Just trash, transformed into another woman’s shiny metal artistry. And each piece? Completely unique. Can’t be replicated. Each one starts as some forgotten scrap, picked up, pocketed, and given a second life… something pretty, something with soul.
