As the Crow Flies (or Doesn't)

This morning, while on my way to the train that would take me downtown, I saw, about half a block ahead of me, a crow standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

Even at that distance, I could tell this was a very large crow. From its feel to its beak, it probably stood taller than my kneecaps--and as anyone who knows me could tell you, my kneecaps are well off the ground.

The crow, feathers shining in the middle of this sunny sidewalk, was picking at something below it--maybe seeds fallen from the trees along the street, or crumbs of bread left over after the sparrows had had their fill. As I approached, though, it hopped off the ground and onto a small tree at its right, which bowed with the crow's great weight.

Then, emerging from the darkness of a much taller tree across the street, a larger crow, its wingspan easily exceeding three feet, glided down and swept up to the top of a house at my left, landing at its zenith, turning to face me and cawing long and loud in my direction.

Perhaps the first crow was the second crow's mate. Perhaps it was disturbed that I was disturbing their feeding or idling or whatever they were up to. Perhaps it just knew it was an extremely large crow and throwing a scare into me might amuse it somehow.

"Dude, you stay where you are," I said back to the crow, my Converse All-Stars never breaking stride. "I have no interest in you." The crow stayed on the roof of the house, its head inclining to follow my movements, as if divining the truth of my stated intentions.

I looked away from the very large crow on the rooftop at my left and focused on the sidewalk ahead.