Outside my window this morning, crows were calling to each other. They sounded close, as if one was perched on the roof of my building, talking to another perched across the way, on the roof of the building next door. I was so disappointed to hear the sound. As if the gray blanket across the Chicago sky weren't enough, the sound of crows is a tried and true reminder that the season of closure, sleep, death of a sort, is growing closer with every night that dusks just a little bit earlier.
I closed my eyes and imagined one of my shoes, a loved red leather mule, flying through the air and catching this crow mid squawk.
"Caw, caw, c--"
He'd be caught in the abdomen by it, might see it coming, and would flap his wings frantically to avoid losing his balance, and the shoe would fall unceremoniously to the ground, landing in the bushes near the front entrance of the apartment building. Several oil black feathers would waft on the gray morning air to the ground, perhaps to be picked up by a child leaving home to go to Jordan Community School down the street. The crow would settle back down and preen a bit, and then, in about thirty seconds, start up again.
I don't tend toward cruelty to animals, so I'm hoping this attitude of shoe throwing is in response to students who make me want to throw them out of class, maybe unruly hormones, perhaps to a high level of anxiety with my parents, or frustration with trendy, edgy, snarky-voiced wedding blogs. (I may have reached my saturation point.)