Spoon River Middle School: 11

Terry Crowe

Free Writing

Outside,

on the other side of this classroom window,

I see a small black crow

perched in a dead oak tree

on the highest branch he can handle

or that can handle him

without breaking.

Not that it matters.

If the branch breaks.

Sure, the Crack! might startle him

(Gun!?),

but he won’t fall.

No, he’ll just spread his wings,

float to another branch,

and be no more careful this time

than he was the last.

You’re free to fall when you can fly.

I sit and watch that crow

as he watches …

what … ?

You can’t really tell, not from here,

but something in the distance

draws his sharp eyes.

Every now and then he opens his beak—

to croak or cry or maybe just breathe—

I can’t tell—I can’t hear—

not through this glass.

Then …

for no reason I can see …

he flies.

Pushes up from his white branch,

heavy wings waving up and down,

long legs dangling like a wasp’s.

I lean forward in my seat

to follow his flight

for as long as I possibly can.

But he quickly disappears,

and the teacher looks sharply

at me,

her sparrow-brown eyes flashing warning.

So I turn back toward her

and think about that crow,

flying free,

while I sit

and sort of listen

and wish that I could perch on a bare branch,

and then

ruffle black feathers

and fall into freedom.