A big, black crow perches outside my window high in an ash tree, sitting among the delicate tracery of twigs like an ink blot. But what does it mean? The ash tree is seedless, bred to be infertile. Is that it? The twigs seem too small, the crow too large. Is that it? Black against a pale morning sky, and cold: 8 degrees, the crow shrugs his shoulders (my answer?) and drops to the snow, where I’ve spread yellow corn for him and all his ink blot friends.