Once there was a woman who was really a crow, or perhaps a jackdaw. She knew where you hid your gold rings, your freshly baked bread. Darkling, darling, darkwing. On bad days, she was all beak: sharp and full of worms. What of avian games? The balancing of sticks and sliding down on slick branches? If she lost all her blue-black feathers, would she be trapped in human form? Her bones remain, simultaneously hollow and heavy. There is a story hidden in her joints and tendons, one of flight and lodestone and shiny red berries.
She will never be content to carry your messages.