I was at Starbucks in Fort Bragg the other day, quietly chatting on the phone, when I felt someone staring at me. I looked up and around, and caught the eyes of a pair of crows.
One had found a Cheeto. He wouldn’t share. He wore the fat and happy look of a venture capitalist, the Cheeto stuck in his gob like medal of dumb luck.
He is probably flaming orange or dead now.
His empty-beaked friend saw me watching, noting his penurious circumstances. What did I think of him? A life of worth. A moment of misfortune.
He flew, winged away with caws and grumbling and a fair bit of giving me the feather. I understood. I don’t have a Cheeto either.
The wind blew h-a-r-d, so hard that the mist lapped at the cars and the buildings like a rough-tongued cat. The crow had trouble landing.
He did it, wing first, then feet. A moment of consideration. A quick caw. The landing was hard. The Cheeto mattered little.
