Excerpt from a work in progress

She walks the path, creaks open the door to the old Volvo, turns the motor over.   I run.  Up the stairs and into the attic, over the crossbeams and the pink fluff, toward the window.   Outside the sun is pale and liquid.  The crows are black and big.  They knock their way around the sky, then knock back down into the crooked tree.  Flying and settling and returning and flying and now the biggest crow caws down from the wide, green crown, and looks through the window at...