RICHARD THEN THE CROW

Sep 10

2 min read

I saw my crow today

from a snowbank he watched me.

But he wasn’t always a crow.

No, at first, he was an owl.I saw my crow a few nights ago

moonlight heavy

six days since my brother passed.

I sat by the open window

air pressing against my tear-stained face.

He watched from a nearby branch.

I acknowledged him—in English.

He flew off,

uninterested in translation.We met in springtime

playing with my new dog

among the trees out back.

He waited for me.

Squawked until I returned,

I left him treats.

The warnings had begun,

though I didn’t know it then.

And besides—he wasn’t always a crow.

At first, he was an owl.A different spring

when I moved into this old house

I was struck by a fresh and desperate ache

for my father —dead nearly six years.

Big changes do that.

They reopen what time has carefully closed.

I couldn’t call him.

Couldn’t invite him to see my joy.

In my pain, I asked for a sign.

I was specific:

An owl.In my new backyard.A few days later

chaos erupted in the weeping spruce.

Small birds converged in protest,

one frantic voice.

I ran outside and looked up.

There he was—awkward,

slightly wounded by their outrage,

unmistakably beautiful.

My owl.He stayed for many seasons,

hooting into the night,

alongside train whistles and church bells.

The neighbors named him Richard, after my dad.Spring came again

At the Philadelphia Flower Show

with friends I spoke of my father

—our tears and laughter braided together.

That night my father came to me

in a dream —the first in a long while.

When I woke, a text awaited from my neighbor:

a photograph of our owl

inexplicably present in morning light,

perched on my own front porch.

I wept.Part of me wishes the owl had stayed

But signs aren’t meant to be crutches.

They don’t erase doubt —only a fool has none.

And besides—the owl had to make room for a crow.Two days ago, sitting in my usual spot,

I looked past the owl-stamped suncatcher

And understood:

Seth’s bird is a crow.

He admired their intelligence,

their odd sociability.

He hoped one day to befriend one.Seth was like that—intelligent,

a little dark, social in his own way.I searched online for a crow suncatcher

to hang beside the owl.

I found one, then hesitated:

Maybe the crow would come differently.

I went about my day.

That afternoon, my love and I chipped ice from the sidewalk,

the UPS truck pulled up.

The driver met my eyes kindly:I’ve got a package for you.Arizona.Seth’s stuff from work.Inside, my husband opened the box with care.

A hoodie emerged first, then—I gasped—a crow suncatcher.But first, there was an owl.

In Memory of Seth Richard, and Richard Clinton Tanguay