t had been three days since the crows came, and still, they covered the yard in a bobbing tangle of distilled black. There was no question to their motive; the rain had brought out the worms and they outnumbered the corvid hoard a hundredfold. It was a feast for the ages and one which seemed frantic for the birds; as if the writhing creatures existed only in a fever dream.

From his seat in front of the window, Vernon watched as the birds hopped from place to place, skewering their beaks into the soft earth, pulling the squirming creatures from the ground, and swallowing them whole. He did not know if this was normal crow behavior because he had never considered crows normal. They were false animals, holdovers from a time of myth and fantasy that only existed for the purposes of omen, parable, and storytelling. Once, when Vernon was a child, he had heard someone in his father’s home say that crows had once been white as the driven snow, but had been stained black when their cousin, the Raven, stole fire from the gods. He couldn’t remember who had told him this. He would ask the woman in the house, who might also know which snow is driven and which is just plain snow.

The wicker of his chair snapped and popped when he moved. It had been a gift from Robert, whom he had only briefly called Bob. He remembered that about him – how even as a child he had never been a Bob; nor had he been a Bobby, Buck, Rob, or – worst of all – a Bert. His headstone said “Robert” and Vernon was very pleased with this, although such a formality was hardly unusual. The dead always use their Christian names. The woman in the house was named Ellen, but Vernon did not know if that was a nickname or not. There had never been any saints called Ellen, which made a strong case for nickname; yet try as he might, he couldn’t remember for sure. This lack of certainty had born a lump of doubt in his stomach and Vernon was completely unresolved in his feelings for her.

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