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“One at a time, each of the crow left the circle and hopped into the surrounding thicket, emerging with a small twig or a piece of dried grass. One by one, they placed their offering on top of the body, hiding the twisted wings and the open beak that lay glinting like an obsidian shard in the low sun. More and more crows began to arrive, each bringing, something to lay on the corpse, until the clearing was a sea of glossy backs. You'd told me once that crows mourn their dead. You'd never told me how. Each bird laid their gift atop the dead crow and flew off. I did not yet know that, sometimes, it is impossible to mourn in the presence of others. When all the crows had left their offerings, the crowd dissolved into the twilight.” — Zeyn Joukhadar