A week after I rescued a crow with a damaged wing, an extremely strange event occurred.
After a long day at work, I was returning home. A mild, disagreeable rain was falling.
I heard an odd sound all of a sudden.
It wasn’t a trumpet or a voice. It was a sorrowful, piercing scream. I paused. The shrubs close to an old playground were the source of the sound.
I approached, stooped, and saw her. A crow. She was sitting there with one wing hanging limply, feathers adhered to her body, and she was drenched. The bird made no attempt to take off. She merely gazed at me.
“Slow down, friend. I picked up the bird carefully and hid her inside my jacket, whispering, “Let’s see what we can do.”
I set up a small space in a box at home for her, complete with warm towels, a heating pad, water, and refrigerator-fresh meat. She drank, ate, and ate suspiciously.
A couple of days went by. The crow grew stronger and the wing mended. She flew around the room at first, and then I began letting her out into the yard. But she returned each evening.
The bird then vanished. I waited for one, two, and three days. A week went by. I began to believe that the crow had permanently vanished. However, I heard the recognizable cawing once more on the seventh morning.
Her beak had something sparkling in it. As if nothing had happened, she flew into the room after carefully setting the object on the windowsill. After circling the ceiling, she landed on the sofa’s armrest and fixed me with her gaze.
I picked up the bundle of keys with shaky hands. An ancient, battered keychain bearing my father’s initials was on it.
One year ago, my father died away. Along with him, we misplaced these keys. They were never located by us.
I’m not sure how the crow knew. Perhaps I never will.
But ever since that day, I have a human spirit and a devoted companion with black wings in addition to a fond remembrance of my father.
