It's 6 am, and the crows keep squawking. I open the blinds, count 9, 10, 11 of them swarming an injured bird. And I know I should do something. I should. But the noise is suffocating. You used to talk to them. You used to call them your spirit animal. Still, I wish they'd keep it down. Caw-caw! You're bobbing your head, shaking your wings, chasing me outside. And I know this can't be real. It can't. But your feathers smell like sandalwood, citrus, and cedar. Your voice in the wind as you fly; can you imagine feeling this alive?

The little girl looks up cradling a frog in the palm of her hand. Moments ago, she'd been on her hands and knees searching for the eyeglasses that had slipped from her face. She couldn't see the frog dodging the high heels and work boots scurrying by. She couldn't see it desperate to reach the sliver of grass at the curb. She couldn't see it–but she felt it, felt it nudging her fingers towards the small wiry frames lodged between a crack in the blistering sidewalk. Before that, she'd been jostled about by the rush of pedestrians trying to make the light, and her mother a blur of impatience because she couldn't keep up, could never keep up, and she remembered the slow and steady gait of her grandfather, how he never let go of her hand.