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As you read the message, wind swishes a thick curtain of clouds open to permit a single ray of sunshine to warm your back. The clear roof of the bus stop magnifies the effects. It is a flash of comfort in a dreadfully gray season insisting itself upon a dreary faded road.

Two young crows return to the corpse of some mangled roadkill as you lock the phone and put it away. The days when a smart phone provided entertainment have long passed; it’s just another tether to a digital and disconnected world of meaningless dread. Why scroll endlessly in a virtual world when the ends of a real world will eventually find their way to you?

The crows fly off just when your phone once more demands your attention. Cars pass each other as you briefly ponder stepping out of the bus stop and into the street — not because you want to no longer be — but because you no longer want to be there. Going to work. And working.

You tap Close without reading further.

There was a time when you were trusted to do your job. You weren’t just competent — you were excellent. You mentored. You trained. You lead. You were praised for your knowledge, innovation, and leadership. And now…

The crows are back.

They seem to be fighting over the meat. No — not fighting. Haggling. They were haggling. One dropped a french fry on the ground and then flew to a trashcan overflowing with bags of uneaten fast food. It squawked. The one in the road squawked back. They both fluttered their wings and danced in agreement.

They listen to each other; how incredibly normal and civilized.

Bzzzz…

You tap, no and put the phone away. Again.

You’re not at the office yet. No work before work. Not any more. You need this time to yourself. The doctor has warned you about high blood pressure enough times. It’s not worth getting angry this early in the morning.

Another pair of crows perches on a street lamp. When a cloud briefly cedes to the sun you see their eyes are nearly black and their feathers have a bluish sheen; with their calm repose you can see they are elders. They call out to smaller ones on the road. The smaller pair responds in unison with a raspy voice. The younger crows stop playing and fly off to a bench across the street as their elders fly down and peck off the last morsels of roadkill.

Damn. Even the crows have managers.

Bzzzzz…

You tap and shove the phone away. You need this time to yourself. You never have time for yourself any more.

The bare trees shake away the last of their leaves at the insistence of an uncaring wind. The chill of a lugubrious sky numbs your concern for the future.

The pairs of crows begin squawking and waving their wings at each other. Juniors and senior bickering. Arguing.

The callow pair leap from bench to trashcan and pull out a large bag that overflows with french fries; an offering to their superiors.

Bzzzzzz…

You tap and shove the damned phone away.

You don’t need an AI to tell you what you already know: Your manager used AI to look at your AI usage, schedule a meeting, and send you an email. And then that AI sent you a slack message about the email, and now a text message about the slack message.

And now the AI on your phone wants to tell you what an AI told an AI about AI usage.

But the crows have arrived at a settlement. A murder has reached an accord.

Bzzzzzzz…

Murder.

The wind picks up and blows the trash down the sidewalk. An elderly woman walking her cocker spaniel steps around it and pulls a curious dog away from a delicious treat. How soon until you’ll be hobbling down a worn-down sidewalk?

Murder spins in your mind as leaves and hamburger wrappers dance out of the bus stop and down the street. The clouds part ways and the sun warms you again. For the first time in years you feel a spirit of inspiration.

You fish out your phone and open the app. You press the microphone and speak to it.

With restrained elation, you expand further.

This feels like the first honest thing you've said in months.

It isn’t the flickering of traffic lights and street lights that draws your eyes away from your phone — it’s the feeling of being watched.

You look up to see all of the street’s fixtures lined with statuesque crows keenly focused on your phone. Some are young. Some are old. They are all fixated on you.

Bare tree branches remain still, restraining every creak and rattle that the season should demand of them.

The grays of the sky rest in place as the clouds stop their endless painting. The world’s end has reached you, it seems.

You take in a deep breath and smell the petrichor of a forthcoming rain. The musk of the trash that litters the ground rises up to greet you.

Your eyes soak in the muted tones of a dying place: Brown leaves and faded signs. Dried grass and worn paint. Withered flowers in the cracks of a dilapidated sidewalk. They all feel like you, and you like them.

Your ears take note of tranquility for the first time in an epoch. No distant sirens disharmonize with far-off beeps of construction equipment. No obnoxious speaker phone conversations syncopate with beats of car stereos.

When was the last time the world felt this calm? Was it five years ago? Ten? Was it when you didn’t wake up with back pain?

What was it like then? When you had excitement and purpose, and couldn’t even imagine a retirement? And now retirement is closer yet feels so much farther away. How did it come to be like this? How can it possibly continue this way? Death is too far away for feeling this old.

And with that, the clouds again paint strokes on their canvas above. The wind rattles the trees and the murder before you dissipates into the surrounding neighborhood.

The brisk wind brings a hint of smoke and a far off siren.

You look down at your phone once more.

A rustle of feathers above you catches your attention. Again the wind opens the clouds so that one small ray of sunlight can warm you in this fading shelter. The shadows of birds whose outlines you know well join your own shadow on the pavement below.

You smile and speak into your phone again. Maybe your ends can meet the world…