When I walked outside the house this a.m. a large black crow was perched on the lawn quite close to me. It flapped its wings, turned its head to look at me with a quizzical eye, cawed loudly then flew away. I recall someone writing a piece recently for the New York Times in which she remarked on how those who die come back to us in the form of birds, especially near to the death. I remember that being true for Stew, who visited my backyard in the form of a strutting wild turkey. Perhaps I’ll see an eagle land when I next walk the Berkeley Marina but today, the first full day of David’s shiva, my tough old bird hangs out and talks to me right in my own front yard.