The crow pecked with renewed vigor at the dirt — it must be the same crow, she thought, it was pecking at the same spot as before, just before it had seen her and flown away. The crow raised its head swiftly. Kaw kaw, and resumed pecking at the dirt.
The Bird (yes, that was what she would call herself now) suddenly realized how close she was to the crow. The dirt on which it was so furiously pecking was no more than ten, fifteen feet from the kitchen window, and she was sitting at a table that was no more than a few feet from that window. Fifteen, perhaps twenty feet apart, yet their worlds could not have been more different, The Bird sheltered in the warm dry home she shared with her mother and grandmother, the bird pecking furiously at the dirt made hard from two weeks of continually freezing temperatures.
A moment later The Bird rose from chair, knowing her action would send the bird outside fluttering (perhaps it would return as immediately as it had the time before). She stepped with light feet covered in white stockings into the front room of their small home. It was the room that lead to the front door, a room too large for a foyer but too small for a living space yet somehow fulfilling both functions. It was one of only three rooms on the house’s floor level, the kitchen and dining space (larger than this foyer/living area) and the house’s sole bathroom being the others. A short flight of stairs directly across the front door lead to three small bedrooms, one each for Cassandra (no, she was The Bird now), her mother, and grandmother. It was an old house, hastily built decades ago by a shipping company for its workers. The Bird would often come across relics from the house’s original use — a book or article of clothing abandoned in a closet or floorboard, initials carved into a joist, a pin-up hidden behind a sheet of wallpaper.