"Veranda, Marie, and the Crow"
By Harry Arabian

A soft vibration on my wrist stirred me from sleep. My iWatch, gentle as ever, reminded me it was time to move. I sat up at the edge of the bed, still caught in that tender fog between sleep and waking. Outside, birds chirped into a July Fourth morning, clear and golden, the kind of summer light that promises celebration and perhaps a bit of mischief.

After brushing my teeth and a quick wash, a light grooming, I made my way to the kitchen. The scent of early sun on the window glass paired well with the idea of coffee. Marie was already in the living room, upright and alert, watching the local news. She’d been up for hours, eyes on the world while I dreamt. A parade of town names scrolled from the reporter’s mouth—Wellesley, Lexington, Mashpee—each paired with promises of parades, concerts, and fireworks.

I reached for my favorite Veranda Blend pod and dropped it into the Keurig. The familiar hum filled the kitchen. As the machine worked its magic, I reached for my favorite mug—the one adorned with birds and wildflowers, a souvenir from the Audubon Nature Store in Princeton. A splash of 1% milk and I was ready to join the day.

But the news had shifted.

Mashpee’s firework storage depot had burned overnight—completely destroyed. Northern California hadn’t fared better. There, too, a fireworks depot had gone up in flames, feeding a forest fire. The reporter’s voice took on that practiced tone of grim resignation. With a sigh, I lowered the volume. Independence Day, and the country was already burning.

That’s when I heard the fluttering.

From the fireplace.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Marie.

Without turning, she replied, “I see a black crow. It’s behind the glass screen.”

I laughed, at first. “A crow?”

But then I saw it. Pale light caught the curve of its beak, its wings fluttering helplessly against the glass.

“We have a problem,” I said.

“The crow must’ve fallen through the chimney,” Marie said, her voice suddenly tight. “Remember? I told you the chimney cap was in the driveway after the storm.”

I groaned. “I moved it to the tool shed. I’ve been meaning to call a chimney contractor.”

“We need an animal removal contractor now,” she said, voice trembling.

I nodded, already walking to the front door. I grabbed the big green towel—the one we keep near the door for rainy shoes—and returned to the hearth. Slowly, I opened the glass panel. The crow didn’t move. I reached in gently and wrapped it in the towel.

Outside, the backyard was bathed in morning stillness. I opened the towel, and the crow leapt skyward in a burst of black feathers. It circled once, then twice, before disappearing over the trees. For a moment, I could swear it looked back in thanks.

I returned to the living room. The news was still low, the silence warm. Marie was waiting. So was my coffee.

“Benefits of Audubon,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “We didn’t need an exterminator.”

“Veranda Blend never tasted this good,” I said, lifting the mug.

Outside, the neighborhood prepared for celebration. But for now, inside, we celebrated the small victories—the kind that start with birdsong and end with quiet rescue.