If they could do it, why couldn’t he? Seething with jealousy, he would watch them soar through the sky. Every beat of their wings, every groundward swoop, every midair pirouette— they tugged at his soul. How was it fair that the birds, oblivious to the amazing gift bestowed upon them, could fly and that he could not?
A large crow would perch on his window ledge, its head cocked to one side. Dark black eyes would study him with an odd sort of intelligence; a recognition of his burning desire. He began talking to the bird, describing the course his life had taken. The crow, silent and non-judging, was his only friend.
One day, the crow started talking back. Open the window, the great black scavenger told him, open the window, friend, and join us.
He opened the window.