I have a new story, “Crow Summer,” on page one of Volume 9 of Woven Tale Press!
Here’s an excerpt:
The baby crow is a storm under a Virginia sweetspire as it struggles to move out of view. We know it is a crow because the wildlife rehabilitator asked if its eyes are blue, which they are, and if its mother is somewhere watching, which she is. In fact, she caws at us from the top of a nearby tree with extreme frequency, so that we can hardly forget her. “The bird is probably fine,” the rehabilitator told us, though the angle of its right wing against the ground, flat like a hand getting a manicure, seems nothing like the left’s fluttering form. “Baby crows learn to fly from the ground. Honestly, they are just weirdos for a while. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He paused. “But if you want to bring it in…”
We don’t. There are bugs to think about, and pecks to our hands, and the drive, which will fill our Sunday night. Instead, we watch the crow until it finds a safe haven in the bushes and then walk home.
Still, we can’t quite shake the guilt, and so we each look during our daily walks. “I think it flew away!” one of us announces Monday afternoon. “Definitely gone,” agrees another on Tuesday morning. But on Tuesday afternoon, we find a wing by the barn. Dead, dead, dead, and likely our fault.
Then on Wednesday morning, during that hour when we drink coffee in our robes and pretend to read the paper, the crow makes an appearance in each of our yards.