A Crow Isn’t Picky

There is an order in the woods. An understanding. A way. The creatures who live in the woods recognize it, feel it. They are a part of it. When the order is undisturbed, life cycles on without acknowledgment. Without fuss. Order begets order.

But change begets chaos.

The group of tall creatures are not part of the order. Straight up and down, without fur or feathers. They walk like birds, but feel like wolves.

The crow watches them from one eye, then the other. He knows their kind, but they don’t belong. Only one of their kind is part of the woods. And all the animals know to leave that one be.

The crow hops down a few branches. These creatures are like the one, but aren’t the one. And a crow is curious.

One of the smaller creatures, the one in the back of the line, is dropping somethings along the ground. The crow cocks his head. Tiny bits of somethings, bright against the dark dirt. Bright in the darkening light.

As the creatures move on, the crow flies down too peck at the bits of somethings. He doesn’t know what they are. But a crow isn’t picky.

The bits of somethings hurt his beak. He pecks a few more, then leaves them to fly back to his tree.

Sometime later, the tallest creatures leave. The crow tucks his beak beneath his wing and sleeps.

When the moon is out, the crow hears a noise. It is not a noise that belongs in the order of the woods. And a crow is curious. He pulls his beak from his wing and peers through the dark. The moon is bright and bounces against the somethings on the ground. The smaller creatures are there, walking noisily and picking the somethings back up. The crow knows they aren’t good to eat. The creatures disappear and the crow goes back to sleep.

The woods settle back into order.

The woods and the beings who live there are not keepers of time, but days and nights have come and gone when the creatures return. They are the same creatures as before. A crow remembers. And again the smaller creature at the end is dropping somethings on the dirt.

A crow remembers that the somethings couldn’t be eaten. But a crow is curious. When the creatures are gone, he flies to the ground to peck at the somethings. These somethings are different and taste of food. The crow has never eaten anything such as this. But a crow isn’t picky.

Again the taller creatures leave, and again the crow is woken from his sleep by the sound of the smaller creatures blundering through the order of the woods. Something is different this time, though. The smaller creatures don’t leave. They circle about and begin keening. It is a harsh sound, a sound that doesn’t belong in the woods. The crow lets out a “caw!” But the creatures don’t stop.

The crow hops down a few branches and watches the creatures from one eye, then the other. When they head off deeper into the woods, he follows. A crow is curious.

The creatures fumble through the woods all night, and as the dark edges toward daytime, the crow feels his feathers ruffle. He lights on a branch near the small creatures and caws at them. They should not be here. The creatures look at him, but keep moving. The crow flies up higher and watches. His feathers have puffed all around him. He keeps following, but from a height. And when they reach the edge of the clearing, he tries to warn them one more time.

The creatures get very loud when they see the large something in the middle of the clearing. They rush toward it, instead of away. As every being in the woods knows to do. The creatures are grabbing at the large something, breaking off bits of it. They seem to be eating the bits of large something. The crow did not know it was good to eat. He has never tried. A crow isn’t picky. But a crow isn’t stupid, either. This something is where the one makes her nest. And the beings of the woods know to leave the one alone.

When the one suddenly appears from within the large something, the crow takes flight, screaming warnings down to the small creatures. He circles high out of reach, but low enough to see when the small creatures follow the one into the something. He calls one more time, then flies away.

But a crow is curious. As days and nights come and go, the crow flies back to the large something and calls for the small creatures. Sometimes the crow hears sounds coming from the large something, but he never sees the creatures or the one.

One time, there are lots of loud sounds, terrifying sounds. Sounds of predator and prey. The crow’s feathers ruffle and he flies quickly away.

The next time the crow comes, something has changed. He can feel it in his bones and his feathers. He isn’t frightened, though, and he circles closer. Large, dark columns of fog are rolling up from the something, heat spurts from it, and the crow flies higher so the heat can’t reach him. And though he doesn’t see any of them, the crow can tell that the small creatures and the one are gone. There is a feel of absence, of emptiness. The heat is frightening to the crow, so he flies away.

The crow returns one more time. Much of the large something is gone. In its place there are mounds of fine, powdery dirt that somehow remind the crow of the heat from before. In the middle of the mounds is something the crow recognizes. Remains of a once living being. He recognizes the shapes of the left overs. The crow flies over to perch on one of the branches curving from the remains. He looks at it with one eye, then the other. There are bits of flesh still sticking to the remains here and there. They also remind the crow of the heat, but he hops down and begins pecking and tearing the pieces off.

A crow isn’t picky.