Every morning a crow comes and sits at my window. It always comes with the sunrise, arriving just as the sun peaks its burning head above the horizon. I can hear its glossy black feathers flow in the wind as it soars to my windowsill. I can see its beady black eyes watch me as I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I can feel its intense stare as it watches my every move.

It follows me when I leave, it’s dark orbs twitching to find my location. It pursues me when I walk, I can sense its presence every second of the day. It stalks me with every moment, finding me through every possible situation. Like a guardian angel, it watches over me as I live, its small eyes piercing into my soul.

When I sit in the park, feeling the wind playing on my skin and watching the leaves fall to the ground, it sits in a far away tree, shaking its ragged wings in anticipation. When I’m on the sidewalk, walking through the busy streets, it follows me, unaware of the other people that exist around me. Every movement is marked by those beady eyes, tracing every twitch, and every breath.

Sometimes its bold, it stands on the freshly cut grass, its small black body standing out starkly against the bright green. Sometimes it looks me directly in the eyes, as if challenging me to provide some contest. Sometimes, it flaps those frayed wings against its bloated chest, and I can hear the beat engulfing my ears, engaging my every sense. Sometimes I can hear its shrill squawk, piercing my concentration, sticking a dagger into my consciousness.

Though sometimes, it’s bashful, fleeing from my sight each time I try to find it. Sometimes when I try to look at it, it beats those wings and it flies off, finding protection in the shade of a leafy tree. Sometimes, when it chirps, the only sound I hear is a low whistle, masked by the wind. Sometimes it confuses me, flitting into one tree and out the next, disorienting me as it finds cover.

When I walk home in the dusk, when the sun and the moon intertwine in space, when the sky is orange, red, blue, and purple at the same time. It’s small, fragile body is masked by the colors of the heavens. When I open my door and walk into my home, it lands on my windowsill again, focusing on me, its gaze never faltering. When I turn off all the lights, and lie down on the soft, welcoming comfort of my bed, I feel its beady eyes on my skin. As I close my eyes, it takes one last look; it flies off into the midnight, its body quickly disappearing along with the vast darkness, soaring behind the clouds. When I open my eyes to the sun’s rays there it is again, gazing at me with the never-ending stare.

Every morning a crow comes and sits at my window.