Eight twenty three p.m.

This is mine, squawks the smaller crow. He puffs up and pecks nervously at something on the pavement.
Bastard! Back off or you’ll lose a few of those pathetic excuse for feathers, the bigger crow screams and advances, menacing.
No. It’s mine. I found it. I was here first.
Here first? Here first? Have you noticed how big I am, you tick-ridden excuse for a bird? Get out of my way.

They shrill and screech at each other in the parking lot. A crust of bread? Crumbs from a bag of potato chips?

A car motor grinds to silence as they quarrel.

My planter box is full of drowned pansies and sodden petunias.

A mother’s voice calls, “Come in now! Are you listening?”

“Coming!”

Half-light in the pale grey sky. Sundown coming. World turning.

Just for this minute, I won’t harden my heart or make a joke of it. I won’t begin to ply myself with platitudes or search for meanings. There is no story. I have no explanations. It is all worthy of love. Worthy of notice.

The crows quarrel. The car stops its’ engine. The flowers droop.

I am passing through forever.

Sundown.

Handy Girl!

Line up your problems, write 'em down. Handy Girl has all the answers. And this particular answer had me guffawing out loud and shouting amens to the monitor. Link on the right as usual, folks.