Old Thing

She fed it every day. A scarred, feather-bare magpie with sharp eyes and a greedy croak.

First, it watched from the garden fence. She left it fruit on the ground, and never saw it take it.

Then, it fanned its tattered wings at her window, and she spread seeds along the sill.

She tried to touch it once. Its peck raised an angry wound.

It stopped coming, as old things do. But sometimes in the sunset sky, she would see a flash of iridescent wing, and wonder.

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