Every morning I am born into the kingdom of Crow.
For weeks now my window has been shrouded with black capes opening, swooping, the exhausting labor of feeding their young. A little nest, well camouflaged within the top of a pine tree, crouches hidden right outside my bedroom window.
The first signs were delicate twig collection. I observed the mother/father crow steadily hop, hopping along thicker branches, testing smaller twigs for strength and breakability. Each piece of wood meticulously inspected. And I thought, oh my, clever one, your nest will be wide and sturdy. How lucky I am to be the uninvited voyeur into your inner world.
But despite being outside my window, their nest stayed stealthily concealed among the bushier, upper branches. Once the nest was secured, there was a strange silent waiting that settled its weight through their branch. Checking in on them in every weather, I observed little movement. In a late spring deluge, I imagined them snug in their nest, dry...