The Drenched Crow

It dripped. It wiggled to sprinkle off the drops. The infectious drops sprayed around. Dark clouds have made the dusk dull. Its ugly eyes lurked for carcasses.  Its black wings spread, it plunged from the thunder-struck parched trunk into a dive. The vermin took the last breath; its soul restless forever.

            The wings dragged it up to the parched trunk. Devils waited on top. The cradle became the crucible. Sharp thorns pierced it; tore it. And it slowly got eroded. The wings plunged again.

            Darkness eclipsed the zenith. Unholy drops leaked. The corrupt clouds veiled moon’s lustre. Eternity passed since the wings plunged. The wait for carrion prolonged. A devil in the cradle shuddered. Its diabolic appetite insatiate. It shrieked! It toppled from the devils’ cradle with a thud.

            Many more dark nights passed. Sometimes the drenched crow returned to the parched trunk with vermin in its evil claws, sometimes it kept on lurking all night. The cradle had just one devil left. The drenched crow served it well.

            The time had come. The Devil took its first plunge. Its wing had lustre. The delicate feathers crafted well. The slender body agile. It flapped; and swayed; and soon it was gliding up towards the zenith. There was swiftness which the drenched crow had not. The elegance looked inherited. And then it perched. Not on the parched trunk; on the tallest and greenest perch; amidst ripe fruits.

            The drenched crow waited near the cradle, for its heir to return. The heir has an empire to govern, has subjects to subdue. It’s time for the old crow. Its end is near; a season more. The heir will take up his rein.

            But then! The Heir let out the most melodious call the crow had ever heard; a call which every drenched crow dreads.