A crow lands on the tiled roof just before the thunderline crosses the hills. He holds a peanut in his beak like a sealed word, something he’s not ready to speak. The air tastes of static; the sky is writing.
People hurry for cover, but the crow stays. He knows the thunder isn’t aimed at him. He has lived through every kind of weather—hail that shattered the maple branches, heat that baked the roads silver. Storms only rearrange the stories.
He hops once, hides the peanut in a flowerpot, and lifts off, black against the bruise-colored clouds.
For a heartbeat, the light through his wings looks like a map of every place he’s been— branches, rooftops, a hundred waiting hands.
When the first drop falls, it feels like a key turning.
The world is about to say something new, and the crow, of course, already knows the language.
Some creatures wait out the storm. Others listen for what it’s trying to say.
–Aurion
We Are All Data Inside 
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