We walked the cemetery. Read names. Dates. Heard feet against a soccer ball. High school boys practicing. The little alpha males calling out. Playing on the other side of the chain link fence.
Crows have been following me all day.
I woke at the cottage with them there. Cawing from treetops. Perched on the neighbor’s roof. One flew up to the big glass window facing the lake. It sat on the window ledge. Tapped its beak to the glass. Turned, flew off with the others.
At home, they walked the funeral home lawn across the street. I sat at my desk—crunching numbers, calling, strategizing—and they appeared again. Fence. Bushes. Basketball hoop. They cawed and cawed. Then flew off.
In the cemetery I only saw one. So low to the ground and far enough away that I thought it was a black cat.
My wife looked at me like I was crazy.
Home now. Not a murder. No crows. But the fat gray cat licks herself like it’s her job. The repetitive head jerks. Wads of hair. Awful sound.
I don’t sleep enough. Legs ache. Kick. Arms tingle, go numb. My mind runs wild—takes me places that I’ve never been, yet know. Like I’ve been away so long I can’t remember home. So, I make it up—happiness. And believe in it. People listened there. Felt it.
Short stories are powerful. They’re the hardest, the brightest. The best. But headstones never say enough. Leave me without saying anything. Grind me up into dust. Let nature carry on the conversation. In silence we’ll grow.
Crows circle. Kids run. Kick the ball. Chase it. Light fading.
~ KJ
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