At the edge of the sidewalk, looking like a black blotch against the snow with two small sticks for legs and a stubborn beak,
a crow was fighting with what looked like a cardboard box.

Curious, as I always am about what these dynamos are up to, I walked up and immediately
the crankiness and crow-language insults were fired from a sideways mouth as it rushed away
onto the empty street. I was sure a google, crow language translator would have displayed:
“Fuck you, motherfucker…thieving bastard…that’s mine, get away from it!”

What I saw was a closed pizza box, turned upside down, next to a waste basket.
I assumed it would be light when I turned it over, but, to my great surprise,
it was heavy and once opened, it revealed what would be called a “meat-lover’s special”
with only one slice missing. In spite of knowing how bad the pizzas from this particular joint were,
I was still curious as to why someone would have thrown out a barely eaten pizza.

From ten feet away it was barraging me with what could only be interpreted as insults; possibly the crow-language version of:
“Fuck you, asshole” or “Get your own garbage, you human scum!” The more I fiddled with the box the shriekier
the insults became. Finally after opening the box fully, I turned it so the little, black screamer could easily get to the pizza,
and moved away. The farther I got, the faster the crow ran towards the box. I’m sure it assumed the night’s treat
had been stolen by this human “S.O.B.”. But as soon as it saw the three-quarters of a pizza, instead of digging in,
well, beaking in, it hesitated for a moment and actually turned its head around then muttered something
sounding less angry and I hoped the crow was somewhat grateful, and, above all, a bit embarrassed.

But, knowing how crude and crass these big-city street crows are, I was sure it was more like:
“What a sucker…fuckin’ loser!”

As I walked away, I thought to myself, tonight, perched on a tree somewhere, one crow is going to have one hell of a night
of heart burn and indigestion!

Selected byRaymond Huffman
Image credit:LoggaWiggler

About the Author: Michael Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French(Munich, Germany).  Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.