Photo Source: Unsplash *** The black tar of a crow was dying in my fingers. Head wrenched sideways, eyes turning in their sockets, beak opening and shutting to show a black tongue. She was in pain, and pain was fear. I had always wanted to speak with a crow, but here I could only weep. Bitter and beautiful bird – and, like all that is truly beautiful, something beyond the limits of its kind. Breed and multiply, but do not be beautiful; beauty cannot be bred, cannot be multiplied. A pink welt...