Mockingbird Mourning Crow

an essay from Jeffrey G. Moss

Too many late nights and early mornings this spring Yvonne and I are jolted awake by the shrill calls of a loud bird in the shrubs right outside our bedroom. In the heavy dark, in a late season dusting of snow, a deluge, on a clear, moonlit night, windows open or closed, it doesn’t matter. The bird’s pleas and appeals puncture our slumber.

On a few occasions we have lain there, sung back, and giggled, like kids. Most nights we curse and mutter, cover our heads with pillows, and sink back into shallow sleep.