A really odd thing happened a week after I saved a crow with a broken wing.
I was on my way home from a long day at work. There was a light, unpleasant rain falling.
Suddenly, I heard a strange sound.
It wasn’t a voice or a trumpet. The scream was sharp and heartbreaking. I stopped. The sound came from the bushes near an old playground.
I walked over, knelt, and saw her. A crow. Feathers stuck to her body, she was soaked, and one wing was hanging limply as she sat there. The bird didn’t try to fly away. She just stared at me.
“Friend, slow down. Whispering, “Let’s see what we can do,” I delicately took up the bird and tucked her under my jacket.
At home, I prepared a tiny room in a box for her, furnished with water, a heating pad, warm towels, and fresh meat from the refrigerator. She ate, drank, and ate with suspicion.
Two or three days passed. The wing healed and the crow became stronger. I started letting her out into the yard after she had flown around the room for a while. But every night she came back.
Then the bird was gone. One, two, and three days passed while I waited. A week passed. I started to think that the crow was gone for good. But on the seventh morning I heard the familiar cawing again.
There was a sparkle in her beak. She placed the device neatly on the ledge and then flew into the room as if nothing had occurred. She circled the ceiling before landing on the armrest of the sofa and staring at me.
With unsteady hands, I picked up the bundle of keys. There was an old, worn keychain with my father’s initials on it.
My dad passed away a year ago. We lost these keys along with him. We could never find them.
How the crow knew is a mystery to me. Maybe I won’t.
But ever since that day, I have a loving friend with black wings, a human spirit, and a warm memory of my father.
