As her eyes opened, the crows landed around her in a circle. They laid for her nuts and seeds and then, hopping, the murder of crows led her back to her home, now barren.
She squats and unzips it. That is when I tumble out. Unkempt. My imperfect self.
His arm cradled my back, the rough of his chin pressed against my temple. The tango was slow, my feet tracing the wood as this man barely moved me from this spot.
I was dozing when she knocked on my door. The sun had long set, and I should have been looking into my dreams, but I was waiting for her.