It started simply enough; I had tossed some stale hotdog
buns out onto the driveway for the birds, then came back in here to the
computer and thought nothing more about it.
The crows in our neighborhood have never been shy and become quite vocal
whenever they are happy or sad, or any other emotion one might attach to a
bird. It never occurred to me that
feeding them would lead to a murder.
When I look
back on my life, I see a pair of dusty sneakers, meandering through a variety
of experiences, with a staggering insignificance. I have always found life to be like nice
wallpaper, with one small tear, just over there. I have somehow evolved into a writer who
makes a conscious effort to avoid writing about the tear. I much prefer creating the illusion of a life
void of stupidity, politics and until today, stale bread.
There are, of
course, other types of neighborhood birds helping themselves to the occasional
driveway snacks, but for the most part, its crows.
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