Crows
By Hugh Behm-Steinberg

A crow, a big one, lands on the fence around the bins at the edge of the parking lot. I’m in our car, doomscrolling. It’s October, still broiling; I’m waiting in the only shady spot left, next to those bins, which stink, for my wife to finish her doctor’s appointment, which also stinks, because only patients are allowed right now in the medical center, stupid flu outbreak. The air conditioning only sort of works and the car engine overheats so I keep the windows down even though it’s awful. Everything’s awful. The crow looks at me; I’m trying to ignore it. The crow takes a hop onto the passenger side door, poking its head in.

“Hey!” I yell.

The crow, nonplussed, hops back on the fence, looks at me, looks away. Before I can roll the windows up, it hops right back over to my side.

Its black beak is as long as my middle finger.