Few more steps and the crow will be counting out to three to your death or you will die three times as much as it took you to carry your steps. A few paces away, the old barn casts a quiet, frail grade of shadow borne of the half-moon. Out in the sky, a part of the universe is weary, inaudibly counting its bareness.
At first, you were afraid. The next time you wanted it, fear was of unknown clarity. And by the third, you stepped out into the open, embracing the cold wide gray space.
A little more intrepidity and the crow will cry no more to your death or you will be born again back to where counting is necessary. A little more ingenuous capering to carry your feet over the edge of the levee and all will be gone. A little more daring lunacy and the crow will fly back to the moon…
Three times—a man whose shadow wore a bowler hat waited for the moon to crow. The next day, the river turned up: Its stream never at rest.