The Crack

A group of black songbirds
gathered each day in the trees.

They looked the same
from a distance.

All dark.
All small.
All close together.

Among them was a crow.
No one noticed at first.

The songbirds sang.
Light, clear notes.
Rising and falling.

The crow listened.
He liked the sound.

So he sang too.
It came out wrong.

Loud.
Rough.

Breaking the air instead of filling it.

The songbirds stopped.
Some moved a little farther away.

The next day, he tried again.
Softer this time.
Still wrong.

The birds did not stop him.
But they did not sing with him either.

He tried to change it.
He sang into the wind.
He sang with his beak in the mud.

It was worse.

Still, he stayed.

He liked their songs.
Even if they did not like his.

One afternoon,
a noise passed overhead.

Sharp.
Loud.
Familiar.

A group of crows.
They called to one another.

The same rough sound
he had been trying to quiet.

He looked up.

Suddenly, everything felt easy.

He answered.
The sound matched.

The crows circled once.
Called again.

He watched them.

Then he looked back
at the trees.

At the soft songs
that were never his.

The crows called again.

Clear.
Certain.

He lowered his head.

When the songbirds
began to sing,
he joined them.

The sound cracked again.

The others shifted.
Just slightly.

He stayed.

And kept singing
as if it might one day
sound right.