The Old Crow

 Once upon a time there was a crow who knelt down in the middle of the road attempting to salvage the final bits of final remains. She was hungry, thirsty, weary. Perpetually, she would arrive at the end of a feast, with little to offer her craving belly.

    It was a struggle, she would admit, to keep up with the roost. She was last to arrive in the evening, but also first to try and leave in the morning. Her wings, however, had a tendency to seize; instead of battling to reach carrion, she battled her stiff wings. And so the day continued, the same form as all the other days.

    Until the day when she saw a small crow.

    The little crow must have been the smallest in all the nests that season. Her wings were no more than fluff, yet she had been pushed from her nest already. She had nothing to eat, and would, of course, die soon. Or worse, spend her whole life flying last.

    The old crow laid down. She felt the heat of the road, warmed by the sun. She thought of the trees. Of meals eaten. She thought of the little bird, smiled, and died.

    The little bird ate the crow.

    But that was as it should be. 

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