The tree borders the highway.
It has shed it leaves, all the memories written on them, released one by one, waiting to rewrite more hopeful ones.
But the nest of the crow is still safely held between the nook of its arms. I couldn’t hear any hatchlings. Perhaps still are embryos inside eggs.
Here, I will be slowing down my pace every evening, straining my ears to catch peeps, whines, rasps, wheezes, and chirps.
Nothing yet. Just the birds coming to roost.
Maybe soon the eggs would hatch.