WRITER’S CORNER
The Crow BY KATHLEEN GULER
Photo courtesy of Dagny McKinley
I LIE STUNNED in cold wet grass, my waterlogged black feathers look ragged instead of sleek. Wings useless. No chance to dry out. I blink away water and wish I were in the pine tree, in my roost, safe. Voices chatter. Raindrops patter in the tall grass that hides me. Traffic passes beyond the fence where a car grazed me. I dragged myself here, preparing to die. My mate and family will grieve. We all die—part of the code of the wild. The chatter dissipates. An old woman over by the building, I recognize her. She brings corn and sunflower seeds each morning. Sometimes other food. Talks to us crows. She sees me. Starts walking, coming to me. I try flapping my wings but they give no lift. She speaks in a low voice full of kindness, crouches. She usually doesn’t frighten me, but she reaches, and fear grips me. No! Please leave me be! Too exhausted to hop away. Her hands gather my wings, lift, Art with Altitude
hold me against her. She’s warm, walking, murmuring, comes to the door I see her go through every day. Where food comes from. Where is she taking me? Please don’t hurt me. Please. The woman lays me in a box, on something soft, warm, dry, sets a container of water next to me. Then corn. Seeds. But she leaves, shuts the door. I’m alone. What do I do now? — Time passes. A window in the door frames the clearing sky. Dry now, feathers fluffed up, sleek again. Strength good. I perch on the edge of the box. Finally the door clicks open. The woman steps in, smiles. I flex my wings. She understands the code, steps aside. I lift, whisk past, and brush my gratitude against her arm with my wingtips. Winter 2022
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