The Crow

The crow, both pilot and craft, drops to my desk with a thump and flicks a rain drop off a wing. I can tell by the way he moves that he's annoyed.
I glance at him without turning my head. I know how much he enjoys watching my eyes move together while his are independent. He thinks it's a trick.
He giggles with glee.
Do hawks bother you, I ask.
Nah, we're cool, we have an understanding, he says. Sounding doubtful.
I don't understand the word Luncheon, he adds.
Did someone ask you to luncheon, I wonder.
Of course not, he says, I'm a crow but I can read.
He does his nervous three step hop, comes closer and stares at me with solid black eyes. I love his eyes. They are shiny like wet but matte.
Matte, I say to him.
Luncheonette, he says. I saw one a long time ago.
I'm no longer frightened by his raspy voice.
He is beautiful.
He is the end of beauty.