The Harvest Moon Meander

Grok, the big black crow, sat high in a deodar tree, looking down on the hot world. It wasn't quite the end of Summer, but the first hints of Autumn could be detected in the air by those who took the trouble to look for it. Grok, being a crow, not only put in the effort to sense Autumn, but also derived enormous satisfaction from the effort.

The day passed quickly. Grok spent much of it fluttering from branch to branch, and occasionally pausing to make crypic utterances at the passersby. Few noticed, although one pedestrian out walking her pack of three yorkshire terriers flinched visibly when Grok gave forth a particularly emphatic salutation to the day. Grok had been pleased by the ressponse -- after all, these last days of Summer merit special notice. And if he hadn't brought this to the attention of the woman and her dogs, well, who would have done it?

The sunset was spectacular: small clouds floated down the sky like burning chrysanthemum blossoms. The dome of the sky took on a shimmering, pellucid blue that faded slowly behind the dimming ashes of the clouds.

When the sky was just the perfect shade of purple black, Grok spread his wings, and became one with the night.

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