Crows also have birthdays. They wake to fog, to the hummingbird flitting above the heliotrope tree. All they want is what they want every day. Mostly. Black coffee, poetry, doom music, a view over the river, thoughts of possible flight and equally probable nesting zones. & perhaps a bit of subtle festivity. Not what it used to be. Three birthdays he’s missed now. There are consolations. But no replacements. Ever. Still content to be winged, beaked, to have a heart thrumming beneath the black.