Crow

“To thine own self be true.” William Shakespeare

Zoe disconnected the telephone call to Libby before the teenager had finished speaking. Who was she to tell an adult that it was not right, whatever that meant, and some lame excuse about not being allowed to return to the flat. As if.

From her flat window in the galley kitchen, Zoe contemplated the sentinel crow perched in an oak tree while its family foraged in the grass. It was a bright afternoon, and the local pub, The Ship, had been open for over an hour. Through the open window, a gentle breeze fanned Zoe’s thin, brown hair. The crow’s family pecked and cawed intermittently, a sharp sound over the din of the television in the living room. Josh, her five-year-old, flicked from one channel to the next, from one cartoon to another, seemingly unable to find anything to satisfy him.

The sentinel crow, with dark, glossy feathers and beady eyes, kept its watch. It was sitting so still it could be nailed to the tree as a cruel act of taxidermy. Bloody mummified, she thought bitterly. Above, three other crows tumbled in the blue sky, making an aerial chase for a small bird. A sparrow, Zoe thought, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I’m hungry!” Josh shouted from the living room in a voice loud enough to be heard over the artificial cartoon sounds of a spaceship blasting off. “I’m hungry!”

“And I’m thirsty,” Zoe mouthed while staring in the direction of The Ship, a ten-minute walk from the flat, five if she speed-walked. She craved a pint of lager, Carling, and a packet of Salt and Vinegar crisps. Just a couple of pints and a laugh with the barman. It wasn’t much to ask, but it was a wormhole to another universe.

A cacophony of caws signalled an attack from other crows. Sounds so sharp they could rip the sky wide open. A rainfall of black feathers covered the grass, sending the sentinel crow into the fray.

So engrossed was Zoe in the vicious attack on its own kind, that she didn’t hear the front door open, or her son’s footsteps outside as he scavenged in the neighbour’s bins.

An injured crow lay motionless on the sunlit grass until vicious beaks tearing at its flesh brought its blackness to a parody of life.

It never stood a chance.

~ Louise Worthington