by daishin stephenson
i sipped coffee and looked out a window. a crow lay in the yard under the white oak.
hours passed, the crow had not moved.
i approached the bird. blood oozed from its nostril, its leg bent at the knee in a direction it should not. i picked it up, carried it inside.
i placed the bird on a floor pillow. beside the pillow, a bowl of water.
we spent the afternoon there on the floor.
the crow died on the pillow. i felt loss, sadness. death is commonplace, part of the cycle. i sometimes forget that and it is good to be reminded.
this is what happens when you invite something wild into your home.
© DOCKYARD PRESS