This morning the sky is pearl gray, shining like pearls do, where the sun begins to pierce the cloud layer.
A man walks out of the sun; he flaps his coat outwards like wings. Is he saying to himself: "Look, I'm flying"?
Mr Crow sits on the top most branch of a tree, now bare of leaves. He owns the park. He is black, with shiny feathers; he is slow and purposeful in flight. Down he comes, lands heavily, bounces; with a clumsy waddle he proceeds to peck at the leaf strewn grass for lunch.