In the shade of a zucchini plant’s broad leaves, I find the crow. One wing is folded neatly; the other hangs low, feathers twisted.
“How long have you been here?”
Dull black eyes stare. The head tips back; the grey beak opens. Its throat, round and red like an angry wound, croaks a weak bleat.
“I’ll bring you some water.”
The kitchen is dark and cool—windows closed, curtains drawn. I open cabinets and push pots around. I pick bowls up and set them down. Thoughts whisper; I pretend they’re not mine.
It’s dying. Don’t go back. Just keep killing time.