Once, many centuries ago, there were no crows. The world was void of the oil soaked feather birds–nothing but doves and canaries to stare at.
The branches of the golden curls willow swayed in a breeze scented by jasmine and honeysuckle–empty as a baby-less pram. No caws. No taunts. Nothing but coo’s and tweets.
What an empty world it must have been without their wit and charm. I am happy I will never know that world. For the crow–and all it’s murderous charm, is the hope I need.
A scavenger.
A humorist.
A hero.
Word Junkie 