The Crow

One of the windows is cracked causing fractured sunlight to bounce into the room. The crow is coldly sunning his toes.
In this light I expect a flash of indigo from him but he is truly a matte black.
How old are you, I asked him.
He shudders and won't look at me.
I remember the plague, he said.
I'm so sorry for your kind, I tell him, I missed all of you very much. I didn't know if you would come back. I watched for you. It was 25 years ago. I used to see crows as big as footballs.
He shrugged and said, I don't know years just cold. Heat.
I admire that you can shrug, I said.
I wish it on you, he said, this understanding. You watch time, you want to hold it. You refer to it and don't know how to move away from it.
I winced with a raw confusion but this was typical of me.
The crow looked at me and rolled an eye. He could do that, roll one eye. It made me giggle.
In light, he said rattling both wings, I still don't know you.