A Little Bird Told Me

When the storm broke around three in the afternoon, the crows found shelter on the screen porch. Ken saw the three of them huddled in the corner by a potted plant when he went to secure the swinging porch door. He wasn’t about to try to move them. He had a thing about birds. He’d always been afraid of them. Some childhood trauma, he supposed. He was almost glad he couldn’t remember what it was. Jessie would deal with the birds. He felt a pang of guilt as he eyed the creatures. Jessie would be tired after working a double shift. Chasing birds off the porch as well as hosing off the mountains of droppings that would, no doubt, be present would not be appreciated. Still, his phobia prevented him from doing anything more than making a hasty retreat. “I guess you guys can stay there ‘til Jessie gets home.”

The crows fixed him with their black beady eyes, giving Ken the feeling they’d understood every word he’d said. He returned to the kitchen, as the willies shuddered down his back.

The cat was sprawled on the breakfast table as if she’d been there all day. Ken toyed with the idea of tossing the plump, orange tiger onto the porch, but images of the resulting mess made him shy away from the thought. He didn’t really want to hurt the birds. He just didn’t want them around him. He made a cup of coffee and settled down in the breakfast nook with a book. The cat barely gave him a glance. Her tail thumped every so often to show her opinion of having to share the table.

The sliding glass doors to Ken’s right looked out onto the porch, but the crows' hiding spot wasn’t visible. It creeped him out. He didn’t like looking at them, but he wasn’t comfortable not knowing what they were doing either.

Lightning flashed, the lights blinked, and a crash of thunder rattled the doors and windows. Ken jumped and so did Simba. She turned toward Ken and backed her ears. “It wasn’t me,” Ken denied. Simba thumped her tail in answer. A shadow slid by the sliding glass doors. Both Ken and Simba swiveled their heads to see. Nothing moved on the porch. Ken set down his book. Simba rose, dropped to the floor with a soft thud and approached the glass cautiously.

Suddenly, a mass of black feathers flung itself against the doors. Both Ken and Simba started. The crow fell backwards, regained its feet and rushed the glass again. Simba responded this time, leaping against the glass from her side. The crow backed off. It turned its head from side to side fixing one eye at a time on the door, as if it were assessing its strength. Then it turned and squawked harshly. The other two crows drifted out of the shadows. They both took a good look, too. Simba sank back, pretending to wash a paw while keeping an eye on developments. Ken sat paralyzed in his chair. It sees its reflection, he thought.

All three crows approached the doors. Simba halted her paw washing. Ken started to sweat. The lead crow pecked the glass gently. It made a whistling noise, then began to strike the pane as hard as it could. The other two turned their heads up and cawed. Simba retreated, frightened by the noise. Ken felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Get up and get out of here, he told himself, but his feet wouldn’t move.

Lightning flashed again, the lights flickered off and the crash of thunder drowned out the bird’s pounding for a second. When the rolling sound stopped the birds were still. Ken swallowed. “Steady,” he muttered out loud. “They can’t have gotten in.” A sudden barrage of tapping gave away the crow’s location. The lights came on, revealing all three crows busy pounding on the glass. Simba had deserted. “Stop it,” Ken shouted, as the lead crow took to the air, throwing himself against the glass. The resulting thuds were terrifying. It didn’t take long for the other crows to follow suit. Ken forced himself to stand. “Stop it,” he shouted a second time. The lead bird was starting to bleed. Its blood smeared on the glass. Ken took a step back. The crows doubled their efforts. Feathers began to drift to the floor. With a loud pop, the glass cracked. Ken staggered forward. “Stop!” He laid a trembling hand on the glass just as the kitchen ceiling gave way. Plaster rained down on the chair he’d been sitting in. The glass lighting fixture hit the ground and exploded sending shrapnel flying everywhere. A wooden beam stabbed into the floor behind the chair where he’d briefly stood.

Ken stared at the destruction. He glanced down at himself. A fine white powder covered his clothes and bits of glass had scratched his arms. Glancing behind him, he saw that the crows had settled down. They didn’t look good.

Ken took one last look at the kitchen and then slid the glass door open. He walked past the crows, through the screen door, and around to the front of the house. Fishing in his pocket, he produced his keys and let himself in. He located some towels and a box. Returning to the porch by way of the front door, he carefully lifted each crow into the box. With his skin crawling, he hoisted the box and made a run for it down the street to the local bird lady's house. She welcomed him, clucking sympathetically at the box and its content.

“I hope you can help them, Mrs. Baker. I know you raise parakeets.”

“Oh, I think so.”

“My cell is completely dead. Would it be okay if I use your old landline? The kitchen ceiling fell in,” he told her. “I just want to call the insurance company.”

“Of course,” she gasped. “Were you hurt?”

“No,” he said, as he reached for the receiver, “a little bird told me about it.”