Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Thief

We own a crow. Well, you can’t really own a wild bird. If they like you, They’ll come. If they trust you, they’ll stay.

My mother was the first to notice him after the big storm. He was hopping around the leaf mulch in the corner of the yard and she saw he had a droopy wing. He was starving and she began digging up juicy worms and grubs for him, which he scoffed.

Within in a few weeks his wing seemed better and he was able to fly up into the lower branches of the gum. That crow knew he was onto a good thing, so he stayed and became part of the family. We didn’t give him a name for ages, but we all had ideas.

Dad said, “Let”s call him Jon Crow.”

“People won”t get it,” said Mum. “They’ll just think his name is John. We could call him Edgar Allan Crow!”

Gran was firm–– “I think you should call him Hitchcock, you know… that movie with the killer birds.” Gran did not like the crow.

I wanted to call him Fark –– it’s what he says all day long–– but Dad gave me a look.

“We are not calling him that!” said Mum. “What about Russell?” She”s been a big fan, ever since ‘Gladiator’.

I couldn’t think of another name at the time, except for Nameless, so we just called him ‘the crow’ until he named himself, later.

At night he liked to perch on one of the beams on the deck, in a sheltered spot out of the wind and rain. I sneaked out in the dark once to check him out and he just opened one eye and seemed to decide I was pretty tame. That crow was lucky our old dog had just gone to the big kennel in the sky. Our neighbours on all sides owned dogs, so maybe he saw our yard as a kind of crow sanctuary where he could feel free to hop around hunting worms, beetles and the odd lizard.

Through the day, he occasionally wandered inside if the door was open. Sometimes he hopped up the hallway to the kitchen. He would stand in the doorway, his black eyes fixed on Mum and his head tilted to one side. If she wasn”t quick enough to throw him a piece of meat, he”d let out an explosive caw and hop one step closer. This creeped her out, even more so since she found out the baby was on the way.

“He’s adorable, but kind of demanding. I never quite got over that Stephen King movie, where an evil crow pecked out someone’s eyes. Why is there always a cornfield full of crows?”

“Crows are birds of ill-omen!” Gran spat, crossing herself and we aren’t even Catholic. She’d come to stay with us, escaping from her retirement village, ready to help Mum when the baby arrived. She hated her room with the view of the carpark and all the rules and the bossy nurses she said were too concerned with her bowel movements.

My worst nightmare was that Gran would decide to stay. I’d had to give her my room and sleep on the day bed in the sunroom. There was nowhere to put my stuff, no desk, no TV, no Playstation, no air-con. Not ideal, as Mum or Dad or Gran were always passing through on their way to the garage or laundry or toilet and I couldn’t really have my friends over, living in a passageway.

But back to the crow. He was fun to have around. There was always some free entertainment. He’d taken a dislike to Gran. No wonder, she was always shaking her finger at him and calling him ‘devil bird’. Sometimes she’d get the broom and he’d retreat to his perch on the deck. One day she came running out of the bathroom, with her big granny knickers around her knees.

“Get that bird outa here!” she screamed. “He’s sitting on the bath watching me, pervy thing!”

It was the opposite with Mum. The crow seemed to like being near her. He started following her all around the house and garden. We had a big birdbath in the rose garden that Mum kept topped up with water and whenever she went there with the hose, the crow would fly down and perch on the edge. He’d hop in and have a splash. He’d hop along after her into the laundry. He’d even try to hop in the car with her.

One day, the crow perched on her shoulder when she was cooking. Mum let out a shriek. Dad and I came running–– we thought the baby was coming. Dad tried to shoo him, but there was no stopping him. He’s a very determined crow.

“That bird has never once besmirched the kitchen floor,” she remarked over dinner. Surely he hasn’t toilet-trained himself?”

“It’s just luck!” said Gran. “That devil shat on me when I was hanging out some clothes yesterday. He did it on purpose. I think we need a pest controller!”

“Mum, you can’t do that!” Dad said. “He’s one of God”s creatures!”

“I don’t think he comes from God,” she snorted. “He comes from the other place.”

Time went by and Mum was due any day. She liked to snooze on the lounge and the crow would perch on the arm, staring adoringly at her. He began to bring her gifts. In one day, he brought her a pink flower, a red peg from someone’s clothesline, a long shiny nail and for some reason, several Brussels sprouts.

Over the next few days, an assortment of screws, coloured buttons, a blue paper clip, some white pebbles, three green glass beads, and lots more Brussels sprouts accumulated in the saucer Mum put on the coffee table. Each time the crow dropped an item in the saucer, he made a raucous caw, as if he was proud of himself. Soon he added the end of a zipper, a red marble with a swirl inside, a bleached chicken bone, a child’s bluebird earring and finally, a well-worn gold ring with what looked like diamonds and sapphires!

“Oh dear,” said Mum, examining this last item. “Naughty bird! What have you done? This isn’t costume jewellery!”

Gran had a look too and exclaimed, “What a thief! I’ve seen this ring before. I think it might be Mrs Perkins’ engagement ring! She told me she left it on the windowsill in the kitchen and it went missing. I’m taking it over there to check.”

“Please, don’t tell her about the crow! Just say you found it on the path.”

Gran returned to tell us how she found Mrs Perkins, crawling round the front yard, searching for her lost ring. She was so glad when she saw it, she didn’t ask questions. “I told you, that bird is evil.”

“He’s not. He just likes shiny things and loves bringing me little presents, although I wish he’d stop with the Brussels sprouts.” I guess Mum had grown to love the crow.

When Mum went into labour, I was at school and Dad wasn’t home from work yet, so Gran called an ambulance. When Mum started squawking, the crow kept flying at the ambulance officers, trying to peck them, but they whisked her into a wheelchair and into the ambulance.

According to Gran, who travelled in the back with Mum, the crow followed them all the way to the hospital, three kilometres away, flapping and clacking and cawing, trying to save Mum from the bad men who were taking her away.

When Dad and I arrived a couple of hours later, Mum was sitting up in bed, holding my baby sister.

“That was quick!” said Dad, presenting Mum with flowers and a big kiss and taking the baby’s little hand. She wrapped her tiny fingers around his big thumb.

“You know, you aren’t my first visitor.” Mum smiled, pointing to the window, where the crow was sitting on the brick sill outside, watching intensely and tapping the glass with his beak.

“Caw!” he said.

“I’ll let him in, shall I?” said Dad.

“Don’t you dare! But when you come again, you’ll have to dig up some worms and grubs and bring them along, or he’ll starve before we can get him home again.” That became my job, not my favourite and I was stoked when they discharged Mum a few days later.

Home we went, with the baby velcroed into the new car seat Dad and I had struggled to install that afternoon. The crow flapped along beside Mum’s window, cawing all the way, until we pulled into the driveway. Then he vanished for a while.

The crow hopped in several times a day, bearing gifts, but this time Mum was forgotten. Little Kate now slept in a cradle decorated with a rainbow riot of flowers, pinched from our neighbours’ gardens. The adoring crow also brought her plenty of grubs, worms and beetles, to help her grow big and strong. And a hair clip, two beer bottle caps, a brass washer and a small piece of blue lego.

And that’s how we finally agreed on a name for our crow–– ‘Burglar’.