Today the crows returned.  As I sat at my table drinking tea, a glorious cacophony rose in the trees above my house.  I ran outside, stumbling through the swirl of leaves on my porch.  My greedy lens swung back and forth, my fingers barely keeping pace with its self-adjustments.  All the while I heard the voice of Penny Thieme, now a whisper, then a gleeful shout.  I swear I saw her spirit soar among the ebony wings and in the towering branches.  She has always viewed the crows as kindred souls.

In this, my third winter among the birds who flock to the Delta on their way to find warmth, I stood beneath the grey sky longing to walk through the meadow with Penny.  This marvelous murder of crows would be her undoing.  She would fall to the ground and weep with joy. 

The crows lifted their wings to sail through the sky.  They called to each other through the gentle rain  They glided on chilly blooms of foggy air to land on the tenderest of branches.  I watched until the light faded, keeping vigil in Penny Thieme’s name.

It’s the eleventh day of the eighty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.