This animal, as smart as a machine, watches the whole world with a few slight twists of its neck, yet never loses sight of the carrion.
It perches atop a nicked, scuffed, bright orange traffic cone; another of man’s inventions that wail out over all the rest of the natural world.
The crow doesn’t care. But I do. Why do we insist on maximums? Why are we so loud? And where is the place untouched by hype? I want to go there.
I am not at home here, among man’s inventions and machinations. I am at home where nature is observed, not trampled. I am at home among lovers, not CEOs. I am at home where freedom reigns, not frictionless transactions.
Carrion belongs to scavengers. I carry on.