Dozens of crows flock to the tree, silent, save for the beating of their wings. It’s a lonely dawn with a light breeze. Chimneys are breathing fog into the early light. It seeps out in vaporous tendrils. A thick, heavy smoke.
You watch the crows, walking along the sidewalk, the tree’s leaves falling around you. One of them touches your shoulder before joining the others on the ground.
Abundant and varying shades of black fold over each other, roof the sky in puffy swirls of storm.
A steady mixture of melancholy, contentment, and longing flow through your veins. It’s more soothing than any quiet stream. The wind through the branches is the blood in your body; the rain that will soon patter the leaves, your heartbeat; the fog, your thoughts.
Drifting, floating away, seeping out. A thick, heavy smoke.