All right.
That’s enough.
My lips are shot. Fingers are cold. Back’s complaining.
Even the squirrels have gone home.
Just me, this bench, and you fellows.
Six crows.
Seven?
No, six.
You’ve been following me all afternoon.
I played by the fountain. You sat on the fence.
I moved under the oak. You moved to the oak.
I played “Key to the Highway.” Nothing.
Tough crowd.
One of you turned your back on me.
Then I tried some blues.
That got your attention.
Three of you hopped closer.
Maybe you like the blues.
Makes sense.
Black suits. Bad reputations. Always hanging around where you aren’t invited.
You’re practically musicians.
Then I played “You Are My Sunshine.”
That was interesting.
First few notes, nothing.
Then the big fellow there cocked his head.
You know who you are.
Another one hopped down from the bench.
Then another.
By the second time through, all six of you were watching me.
Not singing, exactly.
Though one of you made a noise.
Could’ve been applause.
Could’ve been an insult.
With crows, hard to tell.
Still, nobody flew away.
That’s better than I do with some human audiences.
Now the sun’s almost gone.
Park’s empty.
Case is packed.
And you’re still here.
No phones.
No spare change.
No requests.
No one asking if I know “Piano Man.”
Just six crows waiting to see what the old harmonica player does next.
What do you want?
One more?
You’re not answering.
I respect that.
People always have something to say.
Crows know when to shut up.
All right.
One more.
But that’s it.
And don’t expect “You Are My Sunshine” again.
You had your chance.
Something slow this time.
A little blues for closing time.
You can stay.
You can fly away.
Makes no difference.
Well…
maybe a little.
Let’s see if we can keep six crows interested until dark.
That’s about as much fame as a man needs.
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