Sitting on the benchtop - me at the tail end of my popsicle, he just nursing his. Long shadows stretched across the field. We talk about the birds, the black ones.
They’re called crows.
You know, they’re really smart, crows. They can recognize people’s faces. Like if they saw you a lot they would know it’s you.
Why do they bother those small birds, then?
I don’t know; maybe they’re trying to keep their food to themselves.
Well they’re not smart if they kill those little birds, then.
My popsicle stick, now partly chewed into splinters reminds him of a cigarette. I worry about locking up and about his mom coming late to pick him up. He’s been the last kid here for fifteen minutes now and I’m just subbing so I have no numbers to call, no key to get back into the room. We just wait together.
I’m so lucky.
Why do you say that?
Cause I get to be here with you.