Pecking at distracted gnats, Crow got lost on his way to the claw wash. On Fridays there were so many birds and lizards and bats waiting in line to get serviced that the errand could take half a day. How would Crow ever get his claws clean in time for that night’s dance party? It took him so long to get off the sun-parched brick path that his feet clutched dirt, ants, and cloud spray, his name for when an owl spits out fur. When he staggered into the party, drunk on soap and wax, his friends asked why he didn’t merely fly over the path to the claw wash. Crow told them that he could only dream of beauty when his claws raked the ground.