The crows flew down and landed on the poet, one on each shoulder. They were heavy, but not too heavy. They were careful not to dig in with their sharp claws. They rubbed their beaks against her hair, just for a moment.
Stephan said, "What can we do for you, young poet?" His voice was loud in the poet's ear, but not too loud.
Nathan said, "Have you lost your poetry?"
The poet shook her head, just a little. She couldn't shake it too much, or she would dislodge her friends. "I have it safe. I have my good paper, my good pencil. I can still write poetry. That is not why I am here."
And the crows cawed together, "Why, why?"