“It’s when you hear the crows caw that you know that death is near.”
― Anthony T. Hincks.
“I wish I was a crow”, my mom thinks out loud, gazing out the window.”I envy them, so free, I would fly anywhere I desired”.
I am quite sure crows hate me.
Is it that the crows have a lust for her soul? The soul that is captive to a body that served the feeble me.
Dipped in black, sleek, weightless, the crows glide in the sky. Riding the wind. Coalescing into a murky veil.
Striding down the narrow avenue, your eyes gauge me, I gaze at you. I break the link between our eyes. You shadow me watchfully. From pole to pole, you bounce, trailing my path.
You caw for your winged alike.
What unvoiced secrets do your eyes hold? What do your unhuman phonetics orate?
I can never dissect.
You soar away, a dot in the sky.
Leaving me unsettled and churned.
Is there an animal that creeps you out, or seems to not get along with you?