There we were, at my grandfather’s house, after the funeral. It was winter, but outside the
mountain ash tree in the middle of the yard had turned exotic, a sparsely green-leaved tree with
plate-sized orange flowers. It beckoned; I left the house. Outside, the neighbors were raking their
lawn. On the driveway, a crow was dragging something toward me. It was a squirrel, skinned. It
stopped and struggled to stuff the squirrel into its gullet. Right there in front of me, it ate the
whole thing, as if it were a snake, but faster. I looked at my grandfather’s garden, the wearied
tomato plants wilting in their brown somnolence. I looked back at the crow, but it had moved
onto the unnaturally green grass. Now it was eating a large rainbow trout; where it got it I cannot
hazard a guess. It certainly didn’t have time to fly to the nearby river and catch it; besides, in the
river I only ever remember catching rock bass, pumpkinseed, yellow perch, and seeing large
carp. Inch by inch the trout disappeared past the threshold of the crow’s beak. After it finished,
no larger than it was before it even ate the squirrel, it cawed loudly. Other crows circled in the
sky. Next the demonic crow ate the whole earth. I stood on its beak and waved farewell to the
void.
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