Doomed

The Northwestern crow is a gregarious animal. A broken winged crow walked up the road path in front of my window a few days ago. That waddling, bowlegged walk, was altered by the right wing that dragged on the stones. As I watched, his walk was slow and deliberate. He knew, I think, that he was doomed! He had a stoic look on his face that said it all. I don't understand all the multiple, complex, phrasing the crows use, but I know body language pretty well, and I know that crow knew he was walking to the abyss! He was silent! I never thought I would see him again and put it out of my mind. I was working in the orchard two days later and there he was, still alive, still hopping from bush to bush, hiding to avoid detection. Hiding from the predators, his own kind, and the raptors! Still doomed! It doesn't seem fair. You or I may break a leg or arm and it is often a minor inconvenience, rarely if ever a tragedy, and hardly doomed. If we were, we would hardly bear our fate in the silence and grim recognition of the injured crow. He gave no quarter and receives none.