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Death on a Thursday
Morning It is a crow lying
on its back in the shady gutter, convulsing. I know that it is too late
already. But still, I rush to the bird, touch its talon questioningly.
It seems to know what I'm asking, and seems to reassure me that I won't
be scratched. I pick it up the crow
by the legs, cradling its back, and lay it on the grass as gently as I
can. The convulsions are strong. And I am no doctor. But the bird doesn't
die. There are no wounds that I can find through the sweaty feathers.
I stand it on its feet, hoping that perhaps the crow only is stunned from
some fall. There is a squawks of pain; the bird is unable to support itself
so I lay it back down. On her way in to work,
a matronly woman stops to ask me, in a thick New Orleans drawl, "Wha's
wrawn wid im?" "I dunno. I just
found him in the street." "Oh. Maybe a
car hit im, den." And with that, I realize
that maybe a car can save him. But mine is still at home, where I left
it because I walk to work. I pick up the crow, say, "Hold on,"
and I start walking. Fast. I try to run, but it shakes him so, that I
must slow down again. If only I were stronger. When I was very young,
my father and I took our walk up to the elementary school. There, we strolled
by my classroom, an annex building just before the playground and the
track. Near the steps to my classroom's door, I spotted a red hawk lying
in the leaves. He was young and smallish, I was able to carry him in my
arms. Dad and I hurried
back to the house and the car so that we could hurry to the vet. But all
the while we were hurrying along, I think, Dad knew. The hawk died in my
arms before we got to our street. I buried him in a pile of earth that
later was incorporated into the sidewalk around that park, where my father
and I walked until we moved away. I whisper to the crow
again, "Hold on, little guy," but I remember, and I know I'm
not going to make it. His convulsions have stopped and his body has stiffened.
But his eyes still blink, somewhat inwardly, a muted screech still gasping
from his beak. He's still holding on. I make it to my street,
one of the very few places Uptown without enough trees to blot out the
sky. And maybe that is why this poor old crow has been placed in my path.
Maybe his soul couldn't find the sun to wing on towards. As the sunlight
fell on him, and he looked up at the spot of clear blue sky, his body
shook a last time, his eyes seemed to shut from the inside, his body became
rigid. We were right at the boneyard. I bury him in my backyard,
where there's enough soil to hold him down the next time it floods. I'm
grieving that I know no songs to sing for him. A good shaman would have
spread his voice on the wind, to accompany the crow on his last journey.
He leaves this world without ceremony, for I know none to make. But I mourn for him.
At work, I tell the first person I meet about him. I call my father, so
much an old crow himself, and tell him about this one. My dad-more Zen
a man than most monks-vows to say a prayer for him, and I know that my
father will do this. I vow to do the same. This is it: Crow
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