Murder
The gate of my heart is guarded by seven molting crows. They shade it in varying degrees of darkness, rasping at straw-headed pretenders and threatening to peck out their eyes when they venture too near. During slack time they strut around saying, “We are glitter-eyed crows. Nothing outsmarts us and nothing gets past us.”
One woman is not intimidated. She sighs and the crows tilt their heads. “Silly crows,” she says, and finds the statement amusing. Her laughter transforms them, and they open the gate in dove-like submission.
molt ORIGIN Middle English moute, from an Old English verb based on Latin mutare ‘to change.’
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