After having received my punishment, I walked back into my room, finally getting rid of the fabric that stuck to my wounds.
Falling on the bed, I asked myself what the little crow was doing when my eyes surprisingly fell on her.
The small bird had hidden itself, still gripping its treasures. Instead of flying back into her nest, she was here, in my room, under my desk, behind my chair.
The little crow's feathers were in disarray, her eyes big as it sought protection, not in its own nest, but here with me. Did that mean she felt safe by my side? Bringing even her treasures with her?
I tried to lure the bird to me; she even laid her goods to the side, and hesitantly, she flew to my side. Even going so far as placing her wings inside my palm, so easily held, so easily broken. How come the little crow is so docile today?