The Crow

This morning the crow walked in and slapped several things on the table: an empty chip bag, some damp cardboard, a candy bar wrapper, a yellow plastic lighter, and three pennies. He arranged these in a circle, often glancing at me wanting a reaction.
Fine thanks, I said to him. And you?
He sighed.
Listen, he said, I need you to do some work for me. This is the payment and if it's not adequate I will bring more. It's sufficient and impressive, I told him. Consideration and work went into this collection.
His little chest swelled and he preened for a moment.
Why is your face red, he asked.
I've that fever beneath my skin, my ear is throbbing and swollen with infection.
He pushed the three pennies towards me. Here, he said with terrible pity, eat these now, you'll feel better.
I noticed they are all tails up. The Crow noticed too.
He looked away, embarrassed.

The Crow

The crow slams into the window, drops to the sill, glances at me with embarrassment, then hops onto the mantle.
I've had a bad day, loaded with physical pain but otherwise void of content.
Tears crash to my chest. The crow is watching my reflection in the mantle mirror. I can't stop crying. I am thinking of being in the ER today and the woman in the room next to me who wouldn't stop sobbing. I listened to understand her pain and realized she was crying about a loss.
At first I was annoyed since I was trying to read. When I became aware of my selfishness, I was very ashamed.
Now I am crying with frustration about all I won't be able to fix.
Your eyelashes are sparkling, the crow says, There's glass dancing in your eyes.
I don't have any eyelashes he says, looking in the mirror.
He sighs.
He does a soft shoe in the dust, a small sweeping of tiny steps, a hissing really, then he stops and takes a bow.
The bow is more of a harsh jerk, graceless. The crow blinks at me, but just the once. He wobbles like he's drunk.
I laugh.
Clean up the glass, he says, wake up and smell the coffee!

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.

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.

Three crows

Three crows were rolling dice in the alley this morning.
They glanced up as I passed and eyed the trash bag. I hesitated before opening the dumpster, reviewing the contents of the bag wondering if any of it would interest them. One asked me to join them for a game. They wanted to bet on the bag.

My Familiar

When the crows lifts a wing I can hear the distinct rustling of each feather. There's a whisk, brush, crispness to the sound, oddly weighted even though the crow is perhaps 15 ounces.
I had gathered acorns yesterday and placed them on the mantle as a gift.
This morning he scattered them, seemingly oblivious, doing one of his double hops.
A few moments ago he smartly snapped his wing for attention.
Yes, I asked.
Say, he said, I've an idea, let's go bowling today.
I can't. Bellie is going to the groomer and I'll be working.
His wings droop with hurt.
I flick one of the acorns beneath his feet as he hops and he laughs merrily.
Do it again, he shouts, Again! Again!
I roll another acorn towards his feet.
This is how we bowl.

My Familiar

The crow slams into the window, drops to the sill, glances at me with embarrassment and hops onto the mantle.
I've had a bad day, loaded with physical pain but void of content.
Tears crash to my chest. The crow is watching my reflection in the mantle mirror. I can't stop crying. I am thinking of being in the ER today and the woman in the room next to me who wouldn't stop sobbing. I listened to understand her pain and realized she was crying about a loss.
At first I was annoyed since I was trying to read. When I became aware of my selfishness, I was very ashamed.
Now I am crying with frustration and about all I won't be able to righten.
Your eyelashes are sparkling, the crow says, there's glass dancing around your eyes.
I don't have any eyelashes he says looking in the mirror.
He sighs.
He does a soft shoe in the dust, a small sweeping of tiny steps, a hissing really, then he stops and takes a bow.
The bow is more of a harsh jerk, graceless. The crow blinks at me but just the once.
I smile.
Clean up the glass, he says, Wake up and smell the coffee.