Sky Blue....

When all the children in his class were busy singing at the top of their voices, jumping up and down in a state of frantic delight for reasons which he could never fathom, Sky saw something that changed his life forever. While all the kids generated the perfectly annoying decibel around him, Sky's eyes were fixed upon a crow, which incidentally was at the centre of the universe with respect to Sky at that time. The crow was sitting on the scaffolding on the fourth floor of the old red-brown theatre across the road. It was a dark ash-black crow, feathers ruffled by the morning drizzle, old enough to know how to clean its beak on the corner planks, young enough to pull up from a vertical nose dive just five feet above ground. The crow turned, shivered, jumped and then spanned its wings, planning an optimum flight path, as Sky guessed correctly, for the freshly cut fish pieces on the fishermans cart by the old, rusty traffic signal.
The fattest kid in the class, suddenly grew very fond of Sky and almost hugged him unconscious, in a rush of adrenaline, that Sky had inferred in the past, to be a result of shouting too many happy rhymes all day long. Gasping for air and wailing his arms, Sky managed to get rid of the choking arms, which seemed hell bent on loving Sky to death. He arranged his glasses back on his flat, freckled nose, looked outside and could not see the crow. He felt his heart grow cold, grow wings and start flapping.
There it was. Turns out, the crow couldn't even get close to the fishmongers cart. Seeing an experienced right hand, holding a large scaling knife, the crow had decided against being the last action crow. Sky felt as if the crow would have succeeded if he was watching. He felt a connection to the poor scavenger. The crow flapped hard, airborne it turned vertically once, yawed a bit and then sky caught a glimpse of an orange, pinned in it was the crow's beak. Zoom out. Sky saw a child, crying himself silly, complaining to the fruit seller and pointing at the crow. Sky leaned closer to the window with a sigh of relief. He could almost taste oranges and they never tasted this good.
The crow flew upwards, in small clumsy spirals. It flew up till it could carry the orange no more. Then it glided down, smoothe, continuous, fluid on the transformer fins jutting out at unorthodox angles on the pump house roof top. At this point in time, the teacher, tired of all the happy faces in the room, had made a dash towards Sky, keen to make him join the chu chu train. After a couple of awkward tugs, she had given Sky a dirty look, the one a nun would give to a junky, and moved on with her bunch of kids, who acted like they were doing anti-depressants.
Sky looked outside. There was a wisp of smoke near the transformer. Sky ran to the window and craned his neck outside. Medium in size, on the ground fluttering and burning, thirty feet away from the classroom window, was something that he would call a crow just a minute back. Sky leaned forward. He could see an orange, as if blackened by a firebolt on one side, lying on a shallow mudpool, white-black feathers all around it. Sky leaned forward some more.
Not many people know that Sky was born on the day of Autumn Equinox. On his birthday Cirrus Minor was closest to Earth than it ever was. He was destined to be the greatest poet ever. His poems could have ended religions or started revolutions.
Sky lay on the ground at an impossible angle. A thick, black-red stream from beneath his head crept towards the drains. Three stories up, screams tore the happy songs that were echoing the hallways. The heavens cried, the raindrops fell on Sky's open eyes. Sky was having an orange dream of flying on blood soaked feathers.