I stepped outside the house into the cold damp light of a Scottish Autumn morning.
Sleep had evaded me for most of the night and like a stone-cold bonker, I had decided to go for a walk to clear my head.
The weak sun was just spilling over the treetops and the early frost was glittering resentfully under its eye.
I stopped in my tracks.
Oh oh.
There, in front of me on the garden path, stood a black crow.
It tilted its head to the side as it regarded me with an unspeakably old crow eye.
Raark.
It said, shifting its weight from one ebon clawed foot to another.
And just like that my vision closed in until there was only me and the malevolent inky stain that was the Crow.
Raark?
It uttered again contemptuously.
I knew then that this was no mere Crow. This was a harbinger of doom and sorrow. Something fired up inside me.
Have you come for me, oh dread black bird?
You've taken one and two, will I be your third?
I narrowed my eyes and advanced upon the raggedy eldritch thing of night.
Raawrrk?
The Crow skipped to the side and flapped a wing dismissively at me.
Should you not be uttering "Nevermore" in reply?
I am bored evermore by this overgrown fly.
Do you bear tidings of sorrow, do you expect me to flee?
From a ragged old goth bird that barely comes to my knee?
I stepped forward once more, slower this time.
Skrawwak?
The Crow flapped both wings and hop-jumped a pace or two away.
I dropped to a crouch so I could look it head-on, my voice dropping to a low whisper.
Do you come as an omen, or just for my life?
There are richer pickings than me, have you not seen my wife?
The Crow exploded into motion and shot upward on a blizzard of black wings at the mention of the Good Lady.
By no small coincidence, the Good Lady's voice rang out from inside.
Daddy-Bear?! What are you doing out in the garden, who are you talking to?
I blinked, looking around for the Crow but it was as if it had never been.
Daddy-Bear? Have you gone off your chump?
The Good Lady stood in the doorway of my home, eyes narrowed in something that could almost be construed as sympathy.
Just another fucking crow.
I muttered.
Before heading back in I turned, scanning the skies.
Or was it?