The old owl passed away last week, finally leaving a long, tragic life in captivity at a depressing part of the decaying Victorian Zoo.
Meritless but physics by birth, the crow could easily enter the empty cage through the mazes of the fence. Absorbing all the world’s colours, he now stands on the owl’s favourite trunk.
He rolls his eyes inwards, observing his inner dark and caws arrogantly: ”freedom is a choice”. He looks around to see if all have heard; complacently, he flies off into a mordacious twilight.
