October 8, 2020

Crows

Someone asked me what I write about in my journal. Here's an example. (Contains swearage)

Crows

The crows tap danced on our roof. Were they inside? In our loft? Had they borrowed Roy Castle’s tap shoes?  I wanted a long lie today. I wanted stillness. I wanted the peace of a holiday morning. You had other ideas. I opened the window, hoping the sound would encourage flight. One did. But the sound remained. The crow wasn’t a soloist. A troupe of tap dancing crows? What were the chances? The noise persisted. T-shirt donned I make my way to the garden. There he is. Defiant. Proud. Belligerent. “Fuck off crow.” I shout whisper. Nothing, if he had fingers, I’m pretty sure he’d flick me the middle one. The decking is littered with moss that he’s dislodged from our guttering. Then I see it. The tennis ball. I throw it at the roof. It bounces pathetically off the guttering and lands at my feet. Did that fucking crow just laugh? It was a definite smirk at least. Energised the next throw hits a foot in front of the crow. He doesn’t wait for strike 3. He takes flight. Instead of the piss.