By Daniel Guo
There was always this crow crying in the backyard.
It was fish-eyed and scrawny—like what my mother called me.
Every time it stretched out its tongue, its songs were offbeat with the wind chimes.
One day, it brought a friend. It, too, was an awful singer. It was timid—at least it knew its limits. But together they sounded strangely harmonious accompanied by osmanthus.
The crows did not come back for weeks. Maybe the coyotes in the canyons ate them. I hope the remains of their prose rest in peace.
If I strain hard enough, the sounds linger in nebulae.
I love how it ties with such randomness of nature.
Nicely done! Congratulations