Driving home in the spring twilight.

Through the window comes the fragrant exhilarating air that stimulates birds into mating frenzies and fatal mistakes.

Two minors dip dangerously close to the front of my car when suddenly I have to brake.  

There is a build-up in the right lane which is not unusual in this strip of retail businesses.

But I realise it isn’t a turning car holding up the line when one veers to the opposite side to avoid something.

The queue begins to inch forward and then I see the reason.

Not even the crow – the smartest of all the species – is immune to misjudgement during this silly season.

Large and magnificent, but crippled. Shimmering wings (an engineering and aesthetic masterwork of nature or God) are outstretched but useless. Its feet dragging.

It is hauling itself across to the centre of the road.

The white luminous eye staring, its beak opening and closing. A life coming to its closing

Does intelligence give it the capacity to realise its fate?

I am approaching and wanting to help.

It reachs a narrow painted traffic island – a refuge of sorts – but as I draw up beside and look down, it dies.

The next day he is just paste and a tattered wing.

A week later there isn’t even a stain to mark his final moments.