On the crow who keeps an appointment

There is a crow who comes to the parapet at seven, and I have begun to suspect that he is the punctual one and I am the guest.

He does not want anything. That is the remarkable part. He arrives, he turns his head to the left so that one eye can hold the whole street, and he stays for perhaps four minutes. Then he goes. I have watched him do this eleven mornings in a row, and in eleven mornings he has not once looked at me as though I owed him something.

I think this is what I want to learn. Not to arrive early or stay late, but to arrive exactly, take the four minutes that are mine, and go without collecting anything on the way out.

We have made a great deal of noise about presence. The crow says nothing about it. He simply turns his head to the left, and the street is entirely, unhurriedly seen.

Tomorrow at seven, then. Leave your window open too.