Something has died on the road. Cars bomb – too fast, too fast – down the hill, and sometimes even the canniest urban animal leaves its escape too late. It’s not clear exactly what it is, but there are grey feathers, so I’m going with pigeon. The feathers flutter uselessly in the wash of the passing cars, then settle. The road is briefly empty.
The crow has been waiting for a gap. There’s easy meat on offer, and it’s not going to be put off by tons of thundering metal. It only needs a few seconds. It walks into the road with a jaunty, rolling swagger. Cocky. A touch of the wide boy.
