The Crow

There is an eagerness to the sound of a crow’s caw. Something about the bobbing of the head and the black, sleek body that draws the eye. I suppose it could make you think dark, foreboding thoughts or of ill omens or something equally horrible. But perhaps those are only the kinds of things that grownups spin in their minds, having had too much tainted lore and too much time to think.

           For in one crow’s case, there is a little girl, who when she sees him, is utterly fascinated.

            It is on a cloudy winter’s day, where the air hangs heavy and the clouds ominous that she first sees the bird. She has seen crows before, but there is something about the tilt of this one’s head, the keen look in his gaze, and the wise way in which he stands, on one leg and then the other, watching. And so, she leaves a crumb of bread for him on her window’s ledge.

            The next day, the crow comes again. And the little girl leaves out other crumbs.

            So goes the following day, and the day after, until one day, after weeks of her yeasty offerings, he leaps inside her window, and perches on her shoulder.

            It has been well worth the effort, though it has taken so long a time.

            For she has made a friend.

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