Crow

Ever since I became a crow, things have been better, simpler. My focus is always on baubles, shiny little treats: Necklaces, earring backings, bits of aluminum foil, the occasional coin. Sometimes I recall, with minimal fondness, what it was like to be a human. Back then, the baubles got less thrilling the more I possessed. Now, each one is a treasure, worthy of a caw, a shriek, an appreciative head tilt. In the murder, I am rich beyond all imagination. That spell, though meant to be a punishment by the witch, was the best thing to ever happen to me.