“Stuck in her mouth was a single blade of green grass, her last effort to stave off dehydration, hypothermia, starvation, as if by swallowing that blade she could puke up death itself, like a hairball, and be well again.”

“She was the witness to every word I wrote that day as well as every word I’ve written and the many I have failed to write for fourteen years.” — Author Elizabeth Marro on writing and grief after the death of her dog, Chloe.

Rooks can live up to twenty years and jackdaws up to fourteen. This year it struck me that I could have been sharing my commute with some of the same birdy individuals for the last decade and a half. That possibility lies tenderly on my heart, like a bruise.