Snow is driven astray from its path to the ground, not by winds stringing it across the sky but by a soaring crow.

  It is dark in the night and the bird blends in entirely if not for the scant outline it holds against the snow, an invisible sliver of somewhere nobody knows.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It doesn’t need to remember what it leaves behind as it migrates to a warmer area, it only knows that it cannot stop flying or it will freeze.

  If it were to look down at me as it flies and ask me if I would like to come along I’m sure I would not be able to respond truthfully.