CROW

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.