One afternoon, walking, I heard something hard fall from the sky and land beside me with a sharp knock. I looked up to find a crow descending, pinning the thing beneath one claw, pecking at it with quiet devotion. It lifted off again, climbed high into the air, and let it drop — then landed once more to inspect its work. It repeated the ritual, unhurried, as though my presence had always been part of the scenery. Or perhaps its glance said: don't just watch — help.

I kept watching, charmed, until on some uncounted fall it finally broke open. A walnut. The crow understood gravity. It had made a tool of the pavement. On other days I'd seen it gathering wire hangers and other human debris, weaving them into a nest with quiet skill.

Crows, I think, are always looking down at the world from somewhere above — finding worth among the countless fragments scattered through the city, gathering them, editing them into something new.