This Dark Window
I watch from this dark window.
I once saw him take a young dove. Dive from the air, grasp its pure white wing in his razor beak and lift it into the screaming sky. That was a time when he imagined that I thought him just a bird. Back then, when he saw me watching, he would take to the air. His long sleek wings across the horizon. Or sit high in the frozen ash tree like a dark question mark.
But now he comes. Crow blacker than ever. Wings like the devil’s overcoat. Strutting across the garden. Turning this way and that. Talons raw and bloody. His beak a blade.
For now he is brazen. And, as I watch, he raises his head, fixes me with a sharp pin eye. ‘I should have killed you when I could,’ he seems to say.
One day I may take the broom from the corner of the scullery. Turn the metal handle of the oak door and walk down the old worn stone steps. Courageous in the sun. But, if I cannot quell him, I am afraid that he will soar once more through the open door. And take his savage revenge.
So I watch from this dark window.
By John Holland
See more at www.johnhollandwrites.com