It's funny how these days come and go. I stood in my kitchen just a minute ago, looking out at North mountain and pouring my coffee into one of the little clay cups I like. I felt something move in my chest. I wouldn't call it happiness, peace, or contentment - it was a quieter feeling than that. But it felt good to be up early, looking at the mountains and writing a little something. It cut toward the grain of me.
I'm missing a crow. I'm such an expert weeper these days, but when I think of it, my eyes feel with tears that turn into a sneeze. This particular crow has been with my since my West Beverly days, when I was first running again in the graveyard. I know how crazy that sounds - and maybe it is, maybe I was just seeing another crow with distinctive white-streaked wings. Little streaks of white is common in American crows, and a few of my other birds have small "paint" splotches of it. But he had almost entirely white wings, and crows can live up to ten years in the wild, so maybe it was the same bird.
The bird was obviously old and somehow lame. He would hop-skip small distances instead of using his wings. He could fly and did sometimes, but not as well as the rest of them, and he never left the same area of the graveyard. If none of my murder was home, he always was. I spent a lot of time making sure he got down in time to get enough food and I liked to save extra for him.
I didn't see him one day after the last big snow, which I thought was odd enough to notice. Now it's been a few weeks, and I suspect he's probably gone. It makes me sad; I loved his little skip-hop and how he seemed less afraid of me, though he was probably just desperate. It's strange to think I've been feeding these crows so long that I've watched some get old and die the same as I've noticed the batch of fledglings from last summer fill in their wings and learn my haunts.
