Out my window a crow is cawing.
She and I are friends now, though I do not think she knows it. At dawn, she balances on the top of the old wood fence where she peers into the grass and then hops down suddenly to claim a prize, by noon she has moved to the plum tree, or perhaps the tiptop of the cedars along the drive. I set out nuts and she cocks her head and considers.
I am fond of her; I have often sat outside and watched her, wondering about the raucous language of the crows - so knowing; wondering where she's secreted her cryptic nest, wondering if she has ever considered me?
On the ground I find two feathers, black and glossy. I pick them up. They fit just inside my hand.