reading Mark Young's brilliant meditation on the Southern Boobook, and crows, recalls my seeing a crow yesterday morning walking on the way to work. it was playing, yes playing, in the grass right when the sprinklers turned off. it was dipping its head into the wet, rolling its body, and I swear I saw pure pleasure shine in its eyes.

and this winter past Anna found a hurt crow on our porch screaming in pain and confusion. when I got home she had the crow cozy with a towel in a little cardboard box in the room I am now typing in. we called an animal rescue service who advised not feeding it, only give it space and water, and to bring the crow to their hospital in the morning. we named the crow MacGuffin. when I awoke the next morning Anna told me she went to check on MacGuffin to find him strong and alert. she opened the door to the backyard, lifted the towel off the box, and BAM! MacGuffin was off like a shot, back to its normal self.

MacGuffin circled the house a couple of times and flew out of sight. I like the idea of MacGuffin returning to his world with tall stories of a strange room.