We see what we see. But can what we see be translated into a language understood by another? By a crow? For sure, crows are petite poems with personality. Prickly, sometimes. And sometimes, still as night until it erupts much like a pan of water suddenly boiling.
She does backflips in the backyard for the crowds, to encourage touchdowns and home runs, to air the pirouette, the lace, the new slip. The cheers did not last long, but long enough.
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