Safe in the trees, the crows watch the chooks finish their brekky. If Loki was here she would hawk-hurtle the hens and scatter them across the yard. She would glide to her favourite branch to sit and laugh. I’d laugh with her. But Loki is gone, and the rest of the crows mutter and wait.
Finally, the chooks wander off and the crows circle and land one by one, by two, by three and shuffle their wings, just so. Each crow bounces toward the last of the scraps, grabs a prize and retreats.
Boris returns to excavating under the fallen tree, and the others stand by, curious. Suddenly Boris leaves his work, puffs his head feathers up and leaps aggressively at the surrounding crowd. He then grabs the hand of the nearest crow in his, holds her firmly away and resumes digging and tugging with his beak.
Star picks up a stick with her beak, tosses it high and catches it. She caaars, smug at her own cleverness… No one turns to watch. Star tosses her stick higher… and it hits someone’s head. Star receives a blue-eyed glare.
A shadow passes over. The crows flee, scolding.