The Crow

A baby crow cowers in the street, trying to hide from kids from dogs from well-meaning people. Its parents fret noisily, its mother raps her beak sharply, angrily, furiously on the telephone wire. A war party of crows gathers in the giant firs to protect the tiny one but how? Cars go by, slowing, swerving. When I pick it up we are both shaking. Black forms descend on murderous wings and I believe them. I hold the living child carefully out so all the midnight eyes can see and this is a moment of disbelief. I carry her across the street and set her under a bush and leave her for her people. The giant firs grow quiet. Night falls.