Jacqueline heard the crows and felt called. Their caws brought her first to the window, where their black bodies balanced on the telephone wires, then outside to peer up at them. Caw caw caw, they sang, and she felt a strange calm. They brought her peace in a way she didn’t understand.

A young woman walking her dog paused beside her. “I live on the eighth floor. From my balcony, I can see their nest.”

Jacqui followed her gaze to the high-rise across the street.

“I watched them take turns on the nest when they had eggs.”

“Lovely,” Jacqui said, wishing she’d seen that too.

“Some people complain the crows mess up their cars, but I love them.”

“Me too,” Jacqui said, though she didn’t know why crows, of all birds, held such power for her.

The woman smiled and walked on. Jacqui returned inside and made herself a cup of tea. She was lonely, but not eager to know anyone new. Since Chet died, she’d lost most of her tolerance for people. There was no room left for chit-chat or, worse, those soft-voiced questions that began with, How are you doing? She preferred being alone.

Weeks passed. The crows grew louder, gathering at dusk before settling into the trees nearby. One cold afternoon, a piercing ruckus drew her to the window. At least twenty crows crowded the wires, squawking at full force. She stepped outside and saw a dead crow in the street, hit by a speeding car. The traffic ebbed. A few birds swooped down, circling their fallen companion. The whole community seemed distressed, as if unsure how else to express their grief but to caw and caw and caw.

Jacqui thought back to Chet’s death. Everyone had talked so much. As if words could fix something. Platitudes, mostly—how “he was in a better place” or “lucky he didn’t suffer.” That last one stuck in her craw. What did they know? Time warped in accidents. Chet could’ve lived a whole hour of fear and pain in those few outward seconds. That’s when she’d started avoiding people altogether.

The crows’ cries pulled her back. Should she do something? Move the bird off the road? The thought of it getting crushed again and again—it was wrong. Disrespectful.

She was grabbing gloves when she heard a knock at the door. It was the crow-loving woman from before, her expression tight.

“What can we do?” she asked.

Jacqui shared her plan.

“Let’s go,” the woman said. “I’m Camille, by the way.”

Camille carried the rake, Jacqui the flattened grocery bag. Together, under the watch of the mourning birds, they lifted the dead crow from the street. They walked slowly down Jacqui’s driveway, through her backyard, and out to the alley where the green waste bins stood.

As they opened the lid, a new burst of squawks erupted above them. The crows had followed and now lined the wires overhead, watching.

Jacqui gently laid the crow atop the grass clippings. “In case they need to say their goodbyes,” she said, leaving the lid open.

At the back gate, they turned and saw four crows already perched on the edge of the bin.

“Crows are one of the few animals that actually mourn their dead,” Camille said softly.

Jacqui felt a flicker of recognition. Fellow grievers, she thought. Yet another reason she was drawn to them.

Back at the sidewalk, the remaining crows were still and silent on the wires.

“I think they understand,” Camille said.

Jacqui nodded. “Would you like to come in for tea?”

Camille’s face brightened. “That would be lovely. Isn’t there usually a reception after a funeral?”