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December 10, 2012



I found a crow laying on a path the other day. It was laying at a distance and I thought that it must be dead but as I got closer it started to twitch its twisted wing and kick at the dirt. It lay at my feet and gazed up at me whilst it’s body tried to escape. Rain pooled in it’s dirty grey eye. A part of me wanted to pick it. To shelter it from the rain and take it home and wrap it up and call a vet or a charity to save it’s life. But I saw myself picking it up and felt it’s terrible hateful thrashing, seeing the fear and intent in its eye, hearing it scream and curse me. I don’t know how to look after an injured bird and even if it could be saved, what then? The same fear and anger and indifference. It would take wing and beat the air to be as far away from me as it could get. So I lifted my foot and brought it down on it’s head and ground it into the earth. The rain ran slowly into the shallow ditch it’s head lay in. And I didn’t feel any better and I didn’t feel any worse.


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