On garbage mornings in the fall, the Crow Sisters would visit. Perhaps they were economizing and looking for some quick and cheap breakfast. I'd try to start up some conversation, ask them what they thought of the weather while I waited for the blur of the former Bar Mitzvah Boy dashing to my car. But they were a bit haughty and cliquey, disdaining my attempts at conversation because of my poor knowledge of Crowish. And yes, I was interrupting their breakfast. Who knew crows aren't morning people?
Later, as I was flipping through a magazine while waiting for my muse to arrive, a late October spirit came drifting through my draft-proof windows. "Crows," it whispered as I looked at an old fashion magazine saved for collage ideas. "Doesn't she look like a crow?"
It was just a matter of a few accessories.
"And this one. She's the epitome of crow-ness. " I looked more closely. It was of a movie star whose middle aged body had been trained, snipped and airbrushed into false perfection. Her expression was as haughty as the Crow Sisters' taunts. I had a Tod Browning moment and transformed her.
The Crow Sisters had no comment. They had already flown off for a warmer climate and uninterrupted breakfasts.
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