I never saw the crow perched on the fence that dry winter's day, can't know what went on in her head as she watched a squirrel, tail a perfect curlicue, dip its head to the fishpond, drink, dip again, drink, then escape the pond's curved, slippery edge. I'm sure the crow watched for a long time, first with her right eye, then her left. She must have seen that the pond was scummed with algae, must have smelled the sweet rot, but decided to risk it anyway. 

How did she feel when her claws slipped, failed to grip? Did she panic when she landed on her back, when her wings would not lift her? All she could see were the barren branches way above her. Everything out of reach.

We didn't find her until the next day when the crows started coming to the Dutch elm, landing one by one in their black funeral garb. Some shrieked, some cawed, some stayed silent. It was then that you looked down toward the pond and saw the black cross of the bird body.

When the crows left, we lifted her out of the water, put her in a black trash bag, and ditched her in the dumpster.

“She'll be happy among all that garbage,” you said.

I wondered briefly if that was how you'd get rid of me. I wrote on my to do list – Clean the pond.