The waxing moon hung in a diaphanous cloud. He remembered to look down just before he flew over the river. There she was, looking up. He could count on her. Every evening, at sunset, looking up; looking for him. Once she waved and seemed to beckon him.
As a youngling, he’d considered trying to meet her, his faithful watcher. But one of the elders, his grandfather or a great uncle, had warned him off. “Not a good idea. Women like that are untrustworthy.”
As he grew older, he grew to understand why. She was a human. He was a crow.
Image by Robin Anderson
