The crows worked all night disassembling, then reassembling, a man’s car. By dawn it
perched on the roof of his house in perfect working condition. The man knew not to get
angry. He walked whistling to the curb, climbed into an imaginary car, made some
engine noises, and drove off to work. As he slept that night, the crows countered. A man
was messier than a car, and they squabbled about what went where. The next morning,
the neighbors thought it the damnedest thing. A car on a roof, radio blaring. A man
propped behind the wheel, an arm ending in a foot dangling carefree from the window.
An ass in place of a face, sporting sunglasses, staring into endless blue sky.