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The crows are too intelligent.
Like clockwork, they arrive at the church every Monday and Thursday morning, their beady eyes glittering in anticipation. In the milky light of dawn, they gather, the wary ones perched on tree branches or phone lines, the adventurous ones shifting from talon to talon from nearer positions atop the wall or along the edge of the sidewalk. They clack their beaks impatiently, occasionally bumping each other as they jostle for prime real estate. Every Monday and Thursday morning, without fail, they arrive in droves, flocking the church.
This morning, too, they huddle in wait.
The church's back door is creaky; its hinges groan no matter how much oil they're fed. Its sound is familiar, and comfortable for it. The crows, too, know this sound well. The very instant that telltale creak shatters the morning hush, they fixate unerringly on the door, their eyes unblinking, all else forgotten.
Shirasagi steps outside, gazing at the crows. "Good morning," he says to them.
The crows all stare at him, their heads swiveling and craning, their feathers rustling hungrily. One of them caws, insistent.
Shirasagi smiles indulgently at them. Some of his neighbors detest the crows and their propensity to get into every uncovered bag of trash left out on the sidewalk. The evidence of their cunning is left scattered throughout the streets every Monday and Thursday morning--plastic trash bags torn apart, banana peels and fish bones strewn over the concrete, empty potato chip bags dismembered and pecked clean of every last salty crumb. The neighbors attempt to protect their bags of trash from corvid ravishment, but the crows inevitably tug aside the lightweight nets that are supposed to deter them and squawk jeeringly at the loud, obnoxious wind chimes that are supposed to scare them away.
Shirasagi, on the other hand, has invested in better trash bins.
He hoists up his bag of trash and walks down the narrow road. The crows follow, keeping an awkward distance. It isn't far to the trash station, just twenty paces from the back door, but the crows follow him every step of the way. He glances at them, fondly amused. He has never given the crows reason to haunt his trash station, not when several of his neighbors have trash that is much more accessible, but he supposes he can't blame them for trying. After all, crows, too, are God's creatures; for them, as for people, hope surely springs eternal.
"I'm afraid I don't have anything for you," he says to the crows, his tone apologetic. He lifts the lid of the trash bin, deposits the trash bags inside, lowers the lid once again. A soft click announces that it's firmly shut, denying the crows their much hoped-for feast of refuse. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but you'll have to get your breakfast elsewhere."
One of the crows lets out an indignant caw and flaps away. A handful of others hop closer, assessing the situation, their heads cocking this way and that as they calculate their odds. Shirasagi doesn't chase them off. Crows, he knows, remember. They remember objects and locations and events, of course, but most of all, they remember people. They remember who has provided for them and who has threatened them, who they can trust and who has betrayed them. Who to resent and loathe, and who to respect and love.
Shirasagi cannot give the crows what they want. But there is enough bitterness in the world already, especially for the crows; he does not need to add to it by spurning them.
The hour is early, the streets quiet; most people are still rising from bed, their days not yet begun. Still, Shirasagi does not hurry back inside. As much as he treasures the church where he serves his Lord, right now it is only too quiet and still, the silence of emptiness. There's no need to hasten back inside, not yet; God, he has learned, is everywhere, and one does not need to kneel beneath the roof of a house of God to see Him. Shirasagi could retreat to the empty, solitary sanctity of his church, but he would rather be out here, for even the company of crows is company, and there is something almost sacred in the way the dawn light creeps over the horizon and burns away the dew and the darkness.
With the crows as his companions, Shirasagi leans against the wall of the church and watches the spectacle unfold. One of the crows flutters down to land atop the garbage bin, staring quizzically at the thick plastic. It pecks at the lid, to no avail. Another crow joins it. They investigate the lid thoroughly, and then one of them fixes Shirasagi with a baleful eye before flapping away. By ones and twos, the other crows approach and inspect before joining the exodus, no doubt leaving in search of more rubbish-filled pastures, until at last, only a single crow remains.
The final crow perches atop the trash bin, eyeing it studiously. It looks up at Shirasagi, as though in challenge, and then, defiantly, it ruffles its feathers in a show of displeasure.
Shirasagi can't help but smile, just a bit. "I won't chase you off," he tells the bird. "I bear you no ill will, for you, too, are God's creature."
The crow cocks its head to the side and caws its objection. It descends from the trash bin onto the concrete and takes a few hops toward Shirasagi. It clacks its beak at Shirasagi and caws again, a clear message.
If only Shirasagi could decipher its meaning.
He crouches down, putting himself closer to the bird's level. There is a keenness to its gaze, an undeniable intelligence, but it is foreign, almost uncanny. It makes Shirasagi feel as though there is something amiss, like something he once knew but has long since forgotten.
Shirasagi inclines his head to the crow, an abbreviated bow. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice pitched low and gentle. "But there's nothing for you here."
The crow gazes at Shirasagi, but he cannot interpret the gleam in its eyes. Then, without warning, it spreads its wings with a hoarse caw. Shirasagi lifts a hand against the glare of the rising sun on the horizon and watches the crow take flight, its black wings slicing sharply across the pale sky. In a rustle of feathers and a blink of an eye, it's gone.
Shirasagi is alone.
He takes a deep breath; the air is still crisp with the remnants of night. Then he straightens and turns back toward the church. It is early yet, but he must prepare for the day awaiting him.
As he sets his hand on the doorknob, though, a shiver descends upon him like a mantle--a shadow, a premonition, a frisson in the air. There is a presence; there is an absence. On instinct, he looks over his shoulder.
But the street behind him is empty. Silently, eerily, he is alone.
Shirasagi exhales. Then he shakes his head at himself, smiling ruefully at his own folly. There is no emptiness, and he is not alone, because God is everywhere and always with him. God's love flows through all of existence; God walks beside him. Here, too, in this abandoned, quiet backstreet, is the presence of God. Shirasagi is not alone, for he has God's love, and he believes--believes with all of his heart and soul, with every fiber of his being--that this is all he has ever needed. If he feels an emptiness, a void, then it is his own mortal failing, for God is with him; what else could he possible want for?
But still, the narrow street behind him is shadowed and hollow, its emptiness gaping like an abyss, and the cawing of the crows echoes in his ears.