Yesterday: Black crows fucking or fighting in the back yard, like blots of ink in the parched grass. It is too hot. The other birds aren't singing; only the sickly hymn of the crows. The neighbor's cats kill mice and leave them scattered around our property. One is on the steps leading down to the deck, half-decomposed and covered in flies. Two flat black beetles crawl into the carcass.
Today: A clump of downy feathers where the crows were, but no crows and no explanation. It is too hot. The first fallen walnut of the season, small like a green olive, lands near the horseshoe pitch. Its acrid odor stays on my fingers, and I carry it with me as I walk around the yard sipping whiskey and water from a coffee mug. It is Saturday and my friends are far away.
This is the summer of the crow.