The thing fell from the sky at night, so it had to be a star. The little town regrouped around it like bacteria in a petri dish around a dropped breadcrumb. Its plump body was the muse for many a song.
Crows did not respect it; they would often sit on one of the three tail fins and pretend the humans revered them. It became the humans’ jobs to clean the star, polish off all the droppings, until the metal was shiny and bolts were loose and fins were waggling and there came a slight hum from the thing’s nose.