The boy first noticed the crow on a quiet afternoon.
It called to him — caw, caw — from a high branch.
The crow tilted its head.
It was watching him.

The next day, the boy returned and called out,
"Hello, crow! Caw caw!"
The crow swooped low, its blue-black feathers catching the light.
The boy smiled as it wheeled above him in wide, graceful arcs.

On the third morning, as the boy laced his boots, his father asked,
"Where are you off to?"
"To visit the crow," said the boy.

His father scowled.
"Crows are no good — thieving pests. One crow is one too many."
"Not this one," said the boy.
"He calls to me and dances in the sky."
"No crows," his father snapped, thrusting the gun into his hands.

The boy walked out to find his friend.
The crow called to him — caw, caw —
But this time, the boy did not answer.

The crow glimpsed the glint of metal.
He spread his wings wide and climbed,
Spiraling toward the sun.

Remember me, little boy,
See how beautifully I fly?

The boy raised the gun.
A shot cracked the silence.
The crow fell — limp —
And struck the earth.

Stillness.

The boy turned away.
He did not look back
At the blue-black feathers
Scattered in the light.