All summer six bullying crows chased owls from my yard. Six of the biggest blue-blackest crows kept constant watch over my half-acre of woods. I think it was six, the same six, just six, but one can hardly be sure with crows.

One morning I counted all six working together. I couldn't see where any owl had camped for the night. Six cawing crows soon pointed him out. The poor devil was perched in the low branches of the younger trees. I watched six crows dive bombing, swooping six at one time. They took turns; each gave a stunning solo performance.

After that first owl fled the crows returned in patrols of two or three. I used my father's field glasses to spy on each new owl. I studied markings. Never the same owl twice. One Sunday my wife stopped by to visit. She still had her keys. She set a chair beside my wheelchair.

I couldn't look at her.

She held my face in her hands but I couldn't look.

Look at me, she said.

I could hear the crows cawing.

The strain hurt my neck.

Bob Thurber's work has appeared in many publications, including Cafe Irreal, Zoetrope's All Story Extra, Linnaean Street, and Blue Murder. He has work forthcoming in an anthology of New Writers from Agony Press and is finishing up a story collection titled Cleaning Up After the Dead.

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