Recycle
A crow plucked a dry twist that had once been a flower from a small urn next to a grave. It was an old grave, and the writing on the headstone had been all but obliterated by time and the elements. It hadn’t helped matters much that the stone itself was of a poor quality, and I wondered whether the surviving family had had a choice. Whether they couldn’t afford a better burial, or that was just how much they’d loved the interred. The crow took no notice of me standing there and decided, with perfect ebon avian greed, to pluck a second dead blossom into its black beak. It unfurled its wings and took flight, no doubt bound for some hidden nest, where the stolen gift for the dead would be woven into a home for new life.
First draft: 140901
Published: 230427