There's a crow outside my window. I've got the window open, and it's sitting on a thicker branch of the unknown species of tree behind the dogwood, which is still blooming. I can hear it squawk while I type, and when I look over, it looks back. Crows have a particularly penetrating, unwavering stare.
When I was little, my dad would always tell me never to hurt a crow; that some people believed that crows were the returning spirits of people who'd died. Sometime, I wonder.
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