The crow didn’t blink.
That’s how it started -
a black comma on a telephone wire,
holding the evening together
while grease cooled on my hands
and the air smelled faintly
It saw me.
The seeing felt harmless at first -
almost generous,
like being recognized
where you didn’t expect company.
The eye rested on me
without urgency,
without hunger.
I didn’t feel smaller.
I felt included.
The crow shifted its weight.
The moment held,
long enough for warmth
to turn into awareness.
What it knew
wasn’t staying in the present.
It reached backward,
touching things I’d passed by
because they asked nothing of me.
The street went on breathing.
A car moved through.
Someone coughed behind glass.
Nothing interrupted us.
The crow didn’t change.
That’s when the balance tipped.
Whatever it knew
was already complete.
It wasn’t waiting.
It wasn’t learning.
The warmth thinned.
The quiet sharpened.
I felt late to myself,
as if something I’d overlooked
had been patient
and had decided
to stop being so.
The crow stayed
just long enough
for that knowledge
to settle where it does the most damage—
not like fear,
but like fact.
Then it lifted off.
Not suddenly.
Not as warning.
With the ease
of something finished.
I walked on,
carrying what was left -
not shared,
but applied -
aware that something about me
had been seen,
understood,
and would not be unseen.
GBS jr
1985
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