The Cypresses Are Not Who You Think They Are
It was only January. Ears could hear the seething wind through faintly yellowed cypresses standing starkly in the vast nothingness of the plain that was keeping poppies hidden under layers and layers of white.
The now cold blood was chipping away at the reddened snow, its crimson shadowblooming through the crystalline ice, and it was only January. The crow’s gaze was fixated on this reddened snow that was melting. He tried to bury his head in, so maybe the blood wouldn’t run anymore, so that the time would stop, but he could see the blood, the now cold blood, because it was only January, penetrating through layers and layers of the snow that was now reddened. And it did not seem to stop, the blood, which was thick and cold, but surprisingly did not smell of iron. It smelled of nothing, at least to the crow. The crow kept going further and further down into the icy snow. The unyielding snow had now numbed his cracked beak. Buried as deep as he was, he could find the wind nowhere but on his back, that is, if he could still feel it. His wings, now appearing to be completely detached from his head, did not have any sensation left in them.
The crow, now standing still, with his head buried beneath the icy snow, watched as the blood seeped through. He did not know if this was the same blood as before, or if it was fresh blood. Would it matter? To him, not much.
He, the crow, was now in the company of the blood, which was melting the icy snow, and it was only January. “Should I go deeper?” he thought. “Maybe then I could hold till late March!” So he did, and the blood followed, running, chipping away at the reddened snow, as it was its duty, and blood is nothing but dutiful.
Mohammadreza Eslami is a visual artist based in Iowa City. Grounded in arts-based research, his interdisciplinary practice treats lived experience and social inquiry as active sites of knowledge-making.
