TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile
At the park across from the church, my dog raced toward a little dark fluttering thing in the grass: a small crow, flapping away in alarm as Sam pounced on it. God! I chased Sam and leashed him. Then I checked on the crow, a black glossy beauty now curled and still in the bright green grass. As a murder of crows screamed and rioted above the crime scene, we scurried away, Sam delighted with himself and myself full of dread as I recalled that corvids remember faces. God, this fucking dog.