The scorpion and the crow.



I almost stand on it, sitting in the doorway like that. Without my glasses first thing in the morning I think it must be some mud I brought in on my shoes yesterday. Something says its not though. I step over it, fetch my glasses and peer down at the scorpion. Funny wee thing. I fetch the broom and gently sweep it away. It raises its tiny angry fists at me. Scolds me. I desist, leave it be. It goes back to its business, muttering… Upstairs I hear the crow tapping on the kitchen window, impatiently, insistently, furiously.  I feel sure its beak will shatter the glass. I open the window to watch it fly away only to land in a puff of pollen on the branch of the walnut tree. We look at each other. Yes, what ? It flies away to the hill where I walk every day. No not today, I am here, washing and cleaning and trying to find words.



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