Her eyes open just before the alarm on her phone goes off. It takes her a moment to process her environment. Lela listens. Maybe it’s just the sun rise that disturbed her, surprisingly bright for 4:25am. But it’s June in the Pacific Northwest. Lovely summer weather can be the region’s best kept secret.
At the assigned time, she climbs out of bed, steps to the bathroom, turns on the lights, and pulls on her bike shorts and sports bra, the top of the clothes pile she’d set out yesterday. Moving through the kitchen, Lela flips on the coffee maker, prepped from the night before, fresh ground beans being sacrificed in the name of efficiency. It’s Tuesday, garbage pickup day, and when the coffee is done brewing, she empties the grounds basket, ties up the trash bag, and sets it by the back door to go out with the bins.
Standing at the counter, with a cup in one hand and her phone in the other, she scrolls, checking for anything from work that might derail her morning. Thankfully there is nothing. She opens the WSDOT app that tracks the ferry. On time, and her heart rate drops a further beat with the reassurance. The next ferry would be cutting it tight, and her backup plan of calling into the weekly team meeting would surely cause Lela’s boss to raise an eyebrow.
After downing her coffee, she stretches her arms above her head, then pulls her heels up to the back of her knees, one at a time, feeling her muscles lengthen. Lela launches the Peloton app on her phone and hops on the bike. 5:15am. She has all the time she needs to workout, shower, prep the house, and drive to the terminal.
Everything is moving according to her schedule, as Lela rolls the garbage cans to the curb. Turning toward the driveway, she sees something pop up in the yard across the street: A big, black bird, silent and unmoving. Hearing a seaplane overhead, its engine growling into the wind, Lela looks toward the sky. Then she walks back down the drive, starts the car, and glances at the dashboard clock. 6:11am. Right on time to catch the 6:24 to Fauntleroy.
***
Lela moves through the same daily routine, each mental checkbox tick grounding her, the regularity of it keeping her steady. Closing the back door, Lela trots down the steps, glancing up as she reaches the bottom. She draws her breath sharply. The crow is there, this time in her yard. Solitary, it stands in profile with one leg slightly lifted. She stops, then wonders why she did, checks her watch, and hunches her backpack higher. No time, the commute awaits.
Her evening system is the same routine, run in reverse. Wednesdays she adds a stop at the greengrocer on the way home from the terminal. Lela pulls into her driveway, ready to fix dinner and prepare for the next day: grinding the coffee, readying her work clothes, setting her alarm. But something is off, and she feels the disturbance like a clamp on her temples. She stops on the walkway, her arms holding the grocery bag clamped tightly to her chest. The crow is still there, in the yard. A silent statue.
She shivers, even though the temperature hovers in the 70’s. The sun won’t set for another couple hours. The lengthy twilight normally gives her a sense of security as she sets about her evening.
Tonight she deliberately deviates from her routine. While waiting for her pasta to cook, Lela uses her phone to search the Wikipedia page about crows: why they return to the same place; why this one doesn’t make any sound; why it might stand on one leg.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the hiss and splat of the pasta water overflowing the pan. Noodles disintegrate as they hit the stovetop. Damn! followed by eww, yuck! She doesn’t have a backup dinner plan.
“Scatterbrain,” she says to no one.
Lela sits at the table, spooning her mushy penne, scrolling her phone. What if it is the same crow? She feels watched; it seems to know when she leaves and returns. How long has it been following me? She instinctively looks toward the window over the sink. On her phone, she reads that some cultures believe crows bring good luck. Or death.
***
Alarm, coffee, Peloton, shower, grab her bag, lock the house. Lela performs those steps on autopilot, but now with an extra one in her flow. She’s out the door one minute earlier today, scanning the yard.
Where is it?
Her heart sinks into disappointment. She wanted to acknowledge the crow, and now it was gone. Did it give up on me already? Lela shuffles her feet toward the car, opens the door, and throws her backpack inside. Then, she hears a soft, scraping, scrabbling sound. She looks right… left… nothing. She walks around the back of the car and finds the crow there in the driveway. It hops with one leg, swings its other leg around wide and to the outside. Then turns its head toward her, and Lela’s hand flies to her face. The crow has only one eye.
That eye finds its mark. She slowly lowers her hand. Lela studies the crow, curious about its injuries. She takes a small step forward; it observes her.
Her allotted time is up, so she must shoo the bird to safety.
“Move! Go!” she commands, waving her hands toward the yard.
The crow continues to stand and stare. She waits. When she picks up her foot and stamps the ground, it finally opens its wings and flies.
Lela returns to the car, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then sighs. It is 6:20 and she’s missed the ferry.
***
It was a long day, starting late and ending even later. By the time Lela pulls into her drive, the sun is settling behind the tall trees, throwing long shadows across the yard. She scans for the crow, but misses it, camouflaged in the dark. There! she exhales, and her shoulders drop.
She steps into the house, already thinking about dinner, laundry, setting up her system for a Thursday night. Lela drops her backpack by the table and turns to close the door. The crow is right in front of her, on the landing, and she cries out:
“Oh! What? What are you doing?”
The crow walks in, one leg swinging wide, its head jutting out with each syncopated step. Lela holds the open door: an invitation that the bird clearly did not need. She slows her breath. Any sudden movement and it might bolt. It continues its trek into the room, toward the table. Stopping, it looks up as if judging the distance. Then it turns, shakes out its wings and tail. It gazes at Lela still standing at the door. The crow bows its head, ever so slightly. Lela waits, then nods in return.