Lola

Every morning a crow comes and sits at my window. I feel his eyes penetrate my skull, as if he is reading my thoughts. I wonder if he knows it is her I am thinking of. Would that be why he comes to me every morning when I wake? He sits like a porcelain statue, bathing in the morning sun. My hand reaches out and my fingers dance upon the unwashed glass in a futile attempt to stroke his feathers. The crow remains perfectly still.