Burning Bright

After 1, 2 and 3, this week's Thursday Prompt over at Poetigress's Place was the phrase "deep within the forest". And since all my stories for these prompts take place in deepest, darkest suburbia, well, I had to go a slightly different way with it.

     El Brujo rolled partway over on the foot of my bed, 

one paw stretching into the air like a swan's neck.  "Oh, 

once more, if you'd be so kind, August," she said.

     I sighed.  I mean, I enjoy Songs of Innocence and 

Experience as much as anyone, but...  "A fourth time?"

     Her amber eyes slid open the barest slit.  "I ask for 

so little."

     So I turned the book back a page and began it again: 

"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"

     Cawing laughter above and behind me, and I started 

around as well as I could to see a big crow perched on the 

window sill.  "He talking 'bout you, Poosy?" the crow 

asked, and I realized that this was the same crow who'd danced 

with El Brujo across the roof next door a couple weeks ago.  

"'Cause I don't think he's talking 'bout you!"

     "Too many words, Jefe," El Brujo said, not moving from 

her pose, though her ears scuffled a bit against the green 

sleeping bag I use as a bedspread.  "All you meant 

to say, surely, was that you don't think."

     He laughed again, and it struck me that I'd never been 

that close to a crow before.  Just the smell wafting down 

over me from his feathers, all dead meat and wild wind and 

a weird mixture of recklessness and caution like he always 

knew 5 or 6 escape routes from any place he might settle 

himself, made me want to try something new, anything 

new.  "Naw," he said.  "You need a good throw pillow poem, 

Poosy.  Like this."  He touched the tip of one wing to his 

chest, cleared his throat, and recited in just as raspy a 

voice as before: 

"Cushion! Cushion! stretched so long 
On the sofa right or wrong,
Might I venture to suggest
Us bystanders just ain't impressed?"

     A streak of blackness passed within inches of my nose, 

the crow giving a high-pitched squeak and leaping 

backwards, El Brujo growling on the sill where he'd been 

standing just an instant before.  "Not bad, Brujo!" he 

said, swooping past.  "My poem, I mean!  And I even made 

the last line rhyme!"  His laughter rattled and echoed 

between the houses.

     I couldn't help it.  Turning the book back to near the 

beginning, I recited: 

"Merry Merry Sparrow
Under leaves so green--"

     "Really, August."  El Brujo sniffed and bent around to 

bathe her tail.  "Mr. Blake's already spinning in his 

grave: let's try not to make things any worse, shall we?"

Things continue, then, with 5.