Youth and the Crow

The sun pierced the horizon on a cold early October morning. A crow cawed, perched in a tree in the outside dew. The old man rose from his armchair, stumbled across the hardwood floor, and opened a near by window. opened the window as he stumbled across the hardwood floor. The smell of oak and fallen leaves wafted in through the opening. The old man closed his eyes and gingerly inhaled through his nostrils. He opened his eyes, transfixed on a cherry tree. The tree was gnarled and twisted, it had seen many winters. Scraps of an old and frayed rope swayed back and forth. This rope had once healed a tire swing, but as children grow older, so do their play things. Old and worn, the tire had been tossed aside many years ago, but the rope remained. The old man liked to think he had forgotten, it was a mere coincidence, but it was a reminded of those bountiful summer weekends. He smelled the fresh cut grass in the air. The cherries were ripe and succulent on the vine, the tree's blossoms rested delicately on the ground. Occasionally, a gentle breeze wafted by and they were scattered into the air. Sounds of laughter echoed in his ears.

He heard footsteps, the soft pitter patter of his cousin's bare feet sprinted across the grass. After all, they had to eat as many as they could before the crows got them all.

No cherries had been picked in years, the branches were barren, the trunk rotten, yet the crows had beaten him again. Black feathers were nestled in the trees, caws echoed in the old man's ears. He cocked an eyebrow in disapproval. The crows departed with a strong northern wind. The old man heard a small creak followed by a soft thud. A single black pinion fell slowly onto the ground.