Onward

The crow, as it lay dying, did not panic or vow revenge; it did not kick itself for its lack of achievement or legacy (for it was a crow to the best of its ability and had led a fully crow-like life). It did not condemn its humble roost (as a failure to secure something more palatial) or small circle of friends (although, certainly, a larger murder would have had an almost imperial pick of territories). It did not have regrets or sudden torturous aspirations, nor proclaim itself drab in hindsight (because it had been a crow and not an owl) or mediocre in some pervasive but undefinable way - lesser and sorry for itself. It marveled instead, struggling but content in an odd way. It did not favor life over death, feeling very much aware that a part of it was readying for a kind of migration, and it could feel the breeze move its feathers in anticipation of the sky coming down, down, down to place a gentle kiss on the top of its head and urge it onward.