Magicians

Iridescent blue and inky black. The shield of feathers, Crow wears on its back, fractale into one another ; transfiguring the shape of the body. Watch the choreography on the cracking driveway ; the crow tweaking its head. See it waddle forward and bow in a dance. Pricking up dust with a toenail beat... I follow the jump-skip. I draw lines between Crow’s eyes and mine. Watching. Staring. Stopping.

We never really met.

Crow always performed each game from a distance. I sat on the porch and watched, wondering if there is something alluring about loneliness. About the push and pull between a bird’s eyes and my mind.

What is Crow watching?

––

I dutifully sit on the same porch, in the same spot, spinning through the hours. I watch four seasons pass by the porch. I rarely sit in silence. The radio serenades the scene but I want to hear Crow near me.

I crack two sunny yolks onto a turquoise plate and set them on the driveway for Crow. I

question if feeding a bird eggs is appropriate. The sun dries them stiff. The orange orbs stick to the plate. I forget about them. The yolk plate melts and freezes with February. I melt and freeze into the gold-suede couch. Sitting, waiting for Crow.

I grab the Blue-box-strawberry-sugar-chunk-granola from a white cabinet in the kitchen and scatter it on the driveway. Maybe Crow will come.

The rain comes and the granola swells between the cracks. Sticky granola glue trying to glue us together.

Crow skips from the sky and scuttles. Quiet jump and stop. Watch Crow land. Watch Crow eat. Crow watch me eat. Crow watch me sit. And sit. And sit.

I can measure the distance between us in footsteps. Seven steps. If only for the brief moment before Crow takes flight and lands on the telephone wire cross-cutting the alleyway behind the house. I wonder how far Crow flies in a wing-step.

The air is thick and gray now. From my perch on the porch, I exhale a frozen breath cloud. I wheeze on the inhale and Crow jumps back. I apologize, assuming some fault in Crow’s reaction. Feathers fall along the lines of Crow’s movement with a head-tilt. I catch Crow’s eye and Crow shifts away glistening with a cold blue. The wind picks up Crow who catches it under wings. Passing the perch on the wire, Crow dissolves into a patch of trees across the street.

My actions magnify themselves on Crow’s small body. I care how Crow treats me. I care if Crow can see me. Crow can conjure emotions in me.

A crow will never forget you. They chose you. They memorize your gait, your posture, your face. They talk about you. They find you. They avoid you. They don’t trust you.

––

The lawn beside the driveway is greening and a few violet crocuses are beginning to decorate the fence near the sidewalk. The mud patch is clearing. Leaves are sprouting from the cracks in the concrete. The blueberry bush I planted next to the porch is returning. There are no more muddy puddles to wade through in the

alleyway.

Crow wing-steps from across the street. From behind the yellow house with maroon trim and small circle windows. Out of trees sprouting new leaves. Crow lands on the wire. Crow sits with a crow friend.

What has Crow told crow-friend? They speak. They squawk. The GRAKK.

I want to know what crows say when they are mapping the topography of a face. What does Crow think about my face? I trace Crow in my mind. Hatching a line that curves between the head and wing-shoulders. Crow has feet that look like indented cables. Crow has eyes like black marbles inside wrinkle rings. The beads glimmer when I catch them on the wire. We sit in a staring match. I don’t know what it means to win for Crow.

I break the line between us and blink.