A little girl, grinning wide, striding strongly with her shiny patent leather shoes clicking with each heel strike. Her chubby, pink hand wrapped around her father's finger like holding the mooring line of a great ship. She makes four quick steps to his one sweeping, giant stride. Today is the day! They walk past shops filled with sparkling treasures, her eyes magnetized to each display, scanning the glass, searching, searching for one place. The two of them stop in front of the widest window display in town: top half of the display empty for parent humans to gauge the busy-ness, bottom half filled with a diorama of delight intentionally arranged to delight child humans and induce moist, begging stares. Her eyes darting around the scene, it’s not here. Her small posture drooping even smaller. Looking up at her father searching for an explanation, he looks down at her almost blankly – she perceives the slightest twitch of the corner of his mouth. She is led by her father left off the sidewalk and into the shop, looking up at him waving lazily to the shopkeeper behind the register at the far side of the store. Maybe she sees the eyes of the two adults communicating what was not to be said in the presence of tiny ears. Father and daughter work their way to the far side of the display across the many aisles of treasure toward the long counter. Peering down each aisle they pass, she glimpses a boy that maybe wasn’t a boy but – maybe a small grey pile of torn clothes tucked inside the shadows cast by shelves of toys – the pile of not rags but boy startles.

Their eyes meet.

The boy thrusts his hands into his pocket then out again, swimming wildly for the exit. His body smashes into the door, just barely getting the latch in time with momentum, bursting into the air with a leap and onto the sidewalk. His left ankle collapses, exploding with pain, forcing him to tumble across the concrete walk. Onto cobblestone street he rolls, dirty laundry tossed out for disposal, legs tucked until his good side makes purchase. Then with uneven strides, more like hobbled leaps, he pushes into the shrouded darkness of the alley across the street from the store. Yells of the shop owner fade from his ears and is replaced by his own ragged breathing and grunts timed with footfalls below his swollen ankle as he races through the squalid alleyway. Three more corners to turn, or maybe more until he is safe. He only knows he must run. His pace slower now that he is in his territory and injured. His fingers check his good pocket to ensure it is not a bad pocket like the rest; it is not lost. Approaching a hidden rope used to gain access up the fire escape redirects the attention of his hands. Agile legs and strong fingers the only method of survival, they take him up the veiny rope to the skeletal structure embracing the alley side of his building. Breeching the upper edge, the wind tugs at his hair, replacing the scent of decay with that of coal smoke. Pausing, clothing gently buffets, standing tall, though with a bit of favoritism to his hurt side, he fills his lungs triumphantly. Coughing slightly and smiling, he has reached his haven. Pushing through the small opening in his burrow of discarded furniture and tarpaulins, he dives into dim comfort. In this reposeful space he may now reveal the newly appropriated treasure to his world. Paging through his threadbare layers to the one good pocket and resting his fingers upon his tiny stolen treasure – closing his fist around it then retracting from the depths of his pocket – his hand blooms to reveal its smooth red exterior. With each squeeze his grip rebounding and he grins in excitement. “CAW!” suddenly breaks the enchantment. His head and eyes snap up to the flowing ebony sheen of a raven, shrouded by light in the opening of his hovel;

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

peering into him.

A few unhurried hops and a stuttered-step leap away from the pile of furniture, wings lazily kited outward as its body is taken by the sky. The raven easily gains airspace from the earth quickly on the many warm updrafts created by the sun-baked city as it drops away. Circling casually on the draft created by the large, roasted, tar roofed buildings; the raven watches. Their head swiveling in all directions, inspecting the world below for an unprotected rubbish bin, a tossed food scrap, a shiny bauble. Only their head and eyes move quickly – quick bodies are for predator or prey animals, the raven is neither – and they continue their gliding flight waiting for opportunity to languidly give up thier next meal. The raven’s feathers ripple as a cool breeze off the water quenches the sky, just slightly. Timing the draft perfect, they ride the pressure changes towards a waiting rubbish bin spotted with lid slightly ajar. Talons touch down on the exposed rim of the banquet hall, it’s tool steel smooth beak guides the lid to the concrete with a gentle flick followed by a dull “clunk”. They shift their body forward, knees bent, poised as a gasp, ready to burst into the sky at the first sign of discovery. But the raven goes unquestioned. Relaxing, their coal black eyes adoringly survey the delicious bounty below their feet. With the meticulous movements of a surgeon, it picks through the buffet for the best treats; tossing a paper bit gifted to the wind, wad of cloth to the earth. A few bits of food blessed to its stomach. The raven extends its head to its full height, rotating obliquely right as if questioning the whole of the world. It contemplates the hunched person ambling towards it on the sidewalk,

“shuffle – shuffle – click, shuffle – shuffle – click”.

“Beautiful day for a snack eh?” the man asks nonchalantly, halting his forward momentum at a respectable distance from the raven. He looks at the oil-slick bird, looking at him from the edge of the rubbish bin. His right hand already reaching for a bit of sandwich he saved in his waistcoat pocket from last night’s dinner; alone in his apartment. He fights to stabilize his body against the mirror polished mahogany walking cane that quivers in his left hand with the effort of holding himself upright. Laboring to liberate the bit of food provides a shaky, weak toss delivering the morsel much shorter than hoped toward the base of the bin. Features melting to frown down at his poor performance for a breath; then lifts his face back up to the raven, smoothly flowing into the practiced expression that lonely people get when hopeful, “Don’t you like my present friend bird?” The old man watches as his potential friend watches back at him; watches as the bird contorts its neck giving up a single thoughtful eye to contemplate the unexpected gift – then back at him again. The two patient beings watch each other.

Time fades to oblivion.