crows

The crows know that burnable garbage goes out on Tuesdays and Fridays, they tear the bags apart for fish bones and pork gristle. Last Monday night after I’d piled my bag with the others the alley across the street, I squinted at the black shape dangling over the garbage heap. I breathed easy the next day: it wasn’t a real, it was an inflatable crow carcass. Same squishy plastic as a beach ball, even has one of those clear chewy nozzles that tucks inside.