My New Pet

So I now have a pet crow whom I've named "Edgar".  And although he typically sources his own food, mostly worms and tsetse flies, the occasional slice of bread flies from my second-story window and into his world.  And yes, I'm well aware that the "raven" was associated with Mr. Poe, not the crow.  But upon his startling caw at my clumsy cornerturn into his wooded cranny nook one day last week, my mind flashed first to Hitchcock, secondly to "The Raven", finally to his current name, "Edgar". 

It's dusk.  Edgar perches ten feet above my squeaky brass-handled window on a rusty metal roof beam, searching for movement on the ground of my "secret garden" below, glancing sporadically to see what I'm doing inside my studio.  Although it lacks in botanical variety, the overgrown land is blanketed by twining vines of Creeping Charlie, whose shiny coat reflects the dark-blue sky and millions of unnamed stars. And when it rains, the ivy leaves hold the weight of the fresh water, creating bird baths and water cups.