Crow

The crow pecks lazily at a dried, yellow weed. Sometimes caught up in his beak, he throws it playfully. Then hopping after it, his black plumage ruffling in the air, he lands and pecks again. At times the crow will laugh to himself; at times quiet takes him over. In these latter moments he stills, remembering that he was once a man, but soon the crow, the body of the bird, is alive and more than his woeful mind can suppress. The body is bored with the strange thoughts the mind of man thinks. The body hops after the twig, and follows it where it lands.

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