A Crow

We are as smart as a seven year old. 

We find that insulting. 

Why for only seven years? 

Does one’s smarts cut off at a certain point?

Why must ours cut off earlier? 

We don’t sound seven, do we? 

Look at us. 

Look at our black wings. 

Look at our beady eyes. 

Look at our shimmering feathers. 

Look at our shiny beak.

We don’t look seven, do we? 

Humans are peculiar.

They have interesting sayings. 

If it looks like a duck. 

Sounds like a duck. 

It must be a duck. 

We don’t look, nor sound like a duck, do we? 

We are not a duck. 

We find that insulting.

Ducks.

They are surprisingly intelligent creatures. 

A higher IQ than most. 

But not higher than us. 

We are something far superior. 

For we are as smart as a seven year old. 

Why must we compare everything? 

Our intelligence. 

It's only form of measure. 

Is through human years. 

Or human IQ. 

We find that insulting. 

Why could it not be through something else? 

Why human?

We were not human.

The air. 

It was once so crisp. 

So clean. 

Now it was poisoned. 

It took one intake of breath. 

One sniff.

Through our shiny beak. 

We could detect the change. 

For we are as smart as a seven year old. 

What was once faint.

Possibly bothersome. 

But easily ignored. 

Became an all-consuming, lung tearing stench. 

We flew on anyway. 

We are superior. 

We must be smart. 

We knew where we were going.

Air. 

Although it was far from clean.

It worked the same. 

Or close to it. 

It still ruffled our feathers. 

It still lifted our wings. 

It still rolled over our forms as we took to the sky. 

And we appreciated that. 

We wondered. 

Humans.

What did they see in us? 

Our black wings. 

Our beady eyes.

Our shiny beak. 

Surely that’s what they saw.

The glorious entity that we were. 

And not a duck.

That insults us.

For we are as smart as a seven year old. 

We doubted that was what they saw. 

They were blind. 

Blind to the land around them. 

Blind to the smell of the wind. 

But most definitely.

Blind to us.

Our glistening underbelly. 

Our fine claws. 

Our brain.

Must we repeat ourselves? 

The land was changing. 

But we still know the way. 

South. 

Over the rolling hills. 

South. 

Passed the roaring seas. 

South. 

Where are we going? 

One might ask. 

We couldn’t tell you. 

South. 

We traveled in murders.

We wonder what humans see?  

Did they see their skies? 

Plagued with us. 

Our black bodies like knives.

This is our domain. 

We took nothing. 

We shrieked.

In unison.

We assumed it was a shriek. 

It was bloodcurdling. 

One swoop.

One dive. 

One-hundred swoops. 

One-hundred dives. 

Many forms. 

Same mind. 

Flying. 

We loved it. 

Our raw form. 

Our most comfortable position. 

So much ground. 

It all passed under us. 

Did we miss it? 

No.

South.

We needed not our shiny beak for this task. 

Rather.

Our sparking feathers. 

Our black bodies. 

We could sense this change like the rest. 

Cold. 

At first it was a singular breeze.

A whisper from the north. 

Then it settled. 

Nights dragged on.

Into the morning. 

Fog clotted the air. 

Frost. 

So we left. 

South. 

The sides of our vision. 

We're always touched. 

By another black wing.

A knife-like body.

We were never alone. 

We wondered...did we have a leader? 

One individual. 

Higher than the rest? 

No. 

One second we were flying straight.

Then.

We sensed a disruption. 

It was not subtle. 

Not a singular breeze. 

Not like the changes of the land. 

But very abrupt.

We heard a screech.

But not one of our own.

A very distinct call. 

One we were trained to recognize. 

Owl. 

As soon as the thought was mentioned. 

The notion recognized. 

I could feel the peace that had been carefully constructed around us.

Crumble. 

Our connection.

Broke. 

I could see. 

Thousands of us. 

Diving. 

My body struggled to cooperate. 

Half of it screamed at me to dive.

The other half desperately searched for the enemy.

I found it.  

Talons outstretched towards me. 

A murderous glint in it’s eyes. 

My shiny beak instinctively shifted downward.

And I pelted into a nosedive. 

I could hear the outcries. 

Their pain was my pain. 

I screeched in response. 

Thousands of yells filled the air. 

Wind ripped through my feathers.

The ground was getting closer.

And closer. 

The details showing themselves. 

A lake.

Beautiful and clear. 

Surrounded by meadows of green. 

A horrible sound filled the air.

I didn’t have to turn to recognize it. 

For I was as smart as a seven year old. 

My wings shot out. 

I tilted them upward gliding on leftover momentum. 

I flapped them as hard as I could.

I felt the wind from the owl’s wings usher me forward.

I accepted the boost.  

Pushing forward with all my might.

I dove again. 

The owl gave up. 

I didn’t like this.

Too quiet. 

My movements seemed random. 

Not organized. 

My anxiety climbed. 

Silence. 

It stretched on like the meadow. 

The thud of my wings.

The only pattern. 

The only rhythm that was consistent. 

A lonely caw pierced the silence. 

It took awhile for me to realize it was mine. 

Where was I? 

It didn’t matter. 

I knew where I needed to go. 

South. 

I flapped on. 

I wasn’t worried.

That insults me. 

I was as smart as a seven year old.

Surely I could do this. 

The ground passed by under me. 

Time flew by. 

I flew by. 

The sun slowly sank into the sky. 

I wasn’t worried. 

That insults me. 

I was as smart as a seven year old.

I wondered. 

What did humans see? 

Was the night ominous to them?

They were blind. 

Did they fear?

They were weak. 

We feared two. 

Owls.

Change.

Both we could sense. 

Both we could do nothing about.

But run. 

And that we did. 

Humans.

Destroyed the very things keeping them alive. 

We were superior.

I was superior. 

I was a crow.