Funky Little Death Omen
Chilly winds brush gently across numb skin. Hairs freezing to tiny icicles as the temperatures drop and shivers born from the inherent desire to be warm travels throughout my body. I really should have waited twenty minutes for a damn ride home. Exams failed, assignments nearly ripped to shreds in the midst of an emotional breakdown, coffee spilled, and breakfast and lunch skipped. This day really can’t get much worse. As the dulled sun slinks behind a hefty cloud the world seems to grow even colder and the impossibility to hide deeper in my coat becomes more apparent. As small white flurries fly into my stalking figure a singular black bird glides down from his perch on a power pole, a large piece of what looks like bread protrudes from his beak nearly slipping when he lands roughly on the frozen ground. Rotten pea-like eyes stare steadily through my coat and into the core of my being. Comforting in a Micheal Jackson’s “Thriller” sort of way. Fluttering feathers float around the crow with much simulance to a closing curtain on a stage. Then, he was gone. Completely obscured from view and when the feathers landed softly on the dead ground the crow ceased to remain there, the maybe-bread replacing the spot where his wiry feet had been moments before.
