#thecallofthecrow

Bei Maxwell Hanson groaned as he collapsed onto the wooden park bench. This had become a sort of... thing, for the man. Wake up every morning at the crack of dawn, shuffle around his apartment until he was in suitable clothing, then come out for an early morning walk through the park. Sit at the park bench, and occasionally feed the animals that dared to get close.

“Thinking of.” Bei started softly, watching as an assortment of small sparrows gathered on the ground in front of him in anticipation. “Hey there, birdies. Here, have some bread.” He chuckled, pulling out a small bag of shredded white bread and throwing some of it to the ground. He sat up straight, head tilted back as he listened to the sounds of the world. The chirping of the little sparrows. The whistle of the wind. It all felt amazing.

And then a soft caw attracted his attention. He smiled, shifting in his seat as he leaned against the back of the bench. “Hey there, bud.” He greeted, eyes lidded as he gazed upon the little black crow nestled on the other arm of the bench. “You been good? Better than me? You’re coat looks shinier than normal, have you done something with it?” Bei asked.

If people were ever to hear him talking, they would think he were nuts. But talking to the crow, this particular crow with the alluring black feathers, had become routine. It was one of the few animals that constantly came back every day, as if it were waiting for the man. And talking to it had come so easily. After all, the bird had not mouth to respond with. It only listened, eyes sharp and intelligent as it took in every syllable.