sitting on the back porch right now, sipping warm, fresh coffee and listening to the crow commotion in the copse behind the house. I don’t know what goes on out there about this time everyday, but it is mysterious and loud. I swear I can distinguish different voices now; there have to be many in that murder. I keep thinking that if Stevie King were here, he’d have already written a shortstory or two about this.
One of the crows is crying. I can hear it. Or is that the screams of another animal in pain. It might be a dog. A small dog. Suddenly the crows are quiet, yet the poor animal continues it’s painful cries. Now the crows have started in again, others in the east joining them in their frightful birdish incantations. Are they the cause of the beast’s pain? What murderous intent is there in the nightime blackness of those bird’s cruel hearts?