The Crow loved her.
But he didn’t dare tell a soul.
He would listen to her sing when night came and when she went quiet, he would die until the next day when she sang again.
Sometimes he would see her in the early afternoons reading at the cafe. Her soft eyes lowered upon the pages of what he imagined were enchanted stories. Once, she looked up from a small green book and glanced his way, he quickly flew off with the rest of his gang. They were intent on mobbing the hawk who roosted on the electrical wires far longer than they thought was fair. He wanted to stay behind, perhaps sit near her, not speak to her, but just be near her . . . he was certain if she knew that he loved her she would be frightened. How could a Thrush love a Crow? It was impossible.