It snowed Thanksgiving night.
In the morning, the world was layered in white, and I went for a walk and discovered a chair sitting on a street corner.
I stopped and considered it.
How many Thanksgivings has this chair seen? What conversations has it overheard? How many people have sat in it and rested their arms on its arms and waited and hoped and wished? What cats have curled up in its seat? Who has hidden behind its broad back? How many sleeping babies has it known? Has this chair ever seen a shooting star? Do chairs make wishes?
I stood there until a crow came hopping through the snow.
He tilted his head, and looked at me. He opened and closed his black beak.
Maybe he was wondering how many Thanksgivings I have seen.
Maybe he was wondering if I have ever seen a shooting star.
It is 50 Thanksgivings now, Mr. Crow.
And I have seen many shooting stars, but I am hoping, always hoping, to see more.

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