Two black crows ate stale bread in the backyard. They swooped down from the sky and stood atop snow. Eating away at rye, white, and wheat bread. Some pieces had mold on them.

He sat on the deck and watched. Steam came from his coffee cup. You could see his breath.

For hours, he sat out there in the cold. Snow was beginning to spit on him. The crows had left long ago.

It seemed as though he was frozen. He didn’t move. Neighbors drove by and waved. He did not wave back. It was beginning to get dark. The porchlight came on.

His face was red and chapped from the breeze. He peeled dead skin off his lips with his teeth. He sat a while longer.

Then he saw it. The Great Northern Lights. Purple and green. Yellow and blue. A touch of orange. What a heavenly light, he said softly. What a miracle.

He formed a frame with four of his fingers connected together, thinking he’d captured it. Keep it in his mind, just like he did when he saw the red clay mountains of New Mexico. Or Niagra Falls. These things we never forget.

The mind is a camera, he thought. Taking pictures of everything spectacular. He laughed. Sat there and gazed at the lights some more. He had his picture. Filed it with the rest in the back of his mind and watched the Sunrise.

He fell asleep in the chair. Cold winds woke him up. The crows were back.