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.
Mr Crow has a relative who lives in Kentish Town. He sometimes comes and sits on the rooftop of our flats and tells us we're lazy lubbers if we don't get up as early as he does.
I know a crow called Kenny here in Yorkshire. He stopped by this morning in fact which was nice as I hadn't heard from him in a while. It made Harry and I laugh.
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