A Murder Of Crows

Another day was being annihilated by the creeping hand of approaching dusk and the 12 crows flew toward the old red barn. With keen eyes and the blue-black sheen of their feathers, the wise birds found a perch. They surveyed the area and locked their gaze upon the open front of the barn. After some squawking, shaking and a little hesitation, they all flew into the big structure.

Inside the leaning barn, the smell of old hay and dampness filled the air. There were a dozen crows, all eager and wise, a murder of crows so fitting on this creepy, abandoned farm. They were like black ghosts in the fading, eerie light of the reddish sunset. What were they investigating? Were they merely looking for food? Were they looking for fun? Who would know. They pecked at the hay and debris that was all around on the bottom floor. They seemed a bit nervous, though that's the way with crows. Crow number 3 seemed to signal to the group to look up at the second floor. They followed cue and took to flight.

Once the crows were on the second floor, the smell became a little different. There was a scent of old meat, perhaps. Now, this could be interesting! That got the crows on their toes, so-to-speak. They began to search around up there, going over everthing, thoroughly. It was quite a sight, seeing that kind of careful exercise, performed by birds. But, alas, these weren't just birds. These were legends, as far as birds were concerned. They were the subject of stories, fairytales, myths, and fantasies. Crows were known to be very smart, crafty, careful, and family-oriented. They were deserving of their reputation. This dozen was certainly no exception.

As they went through the entire second floor, a couple of the crows began to fight. The squawking of the two was very loud as the others went about their task. The two flapped and screamed. Old pieces of dry hay flew about and twirled through the air, eventually lighting on the bottom floor below.

It turns out that what they were fighting about was something ghastly. They pecked at a hand. It was a human hand, not that long-dead, as it turns out. It was a grisly sight. The two battling crows seemed entirely too aggressive for such a horrid meal. Although, how could a human like me fathom what crows like to eat. I think humans and crows would make bad friends and dangerous company. I was starting to look at this murder of crows as a dirty dozen.

The other crows came over, took what they wanted, and then they stopped. They just stopped, all of a sudden. It was strange. The barn fell silent. The last bit of dusty hay fluttered onto the bottom floorboards. The red sun was dipping low now and purple hues decorated the sky. The dirty dozen were still quiet and still. It was eerie to see them like this. This old red barn was losing the light and dusk was coming closer. I wonder why the crows came here, what has sparked their interest in this old, deserted barn? What person could know? Who could possibly know about what crows know? Surely not I, a mere mortal.

The dark ghouls got a smell of something else, perhaps even more intriguing, and flew to the third top floor. Their wings were whisper-quiet. It's a rather wonderful thing, to see such a graceful flight. They were like dark spirits from another realm. They moved with such purpose and an instinct that must be unsurpassed in nature. Oh, yes, there was something up here. The smell was strong up here, the smell of...what was it? Rotting meat. Well, if a dead human body can be considered meat. If you're a crow, it most definitely can be! They were elated with their find. The squawking began again, louder than ever. The following frenzy was epic. The cackling sounds were almost deafening and the pecking was so very aggressive. This was truly a gruesome sight, but there was a beauty to it too. It was the beauty of raw nature. If a person, a human being, a homo sapien could experience that nature, to taste that fruit. But, alas, all we are left with is a dirty dozen, just another murder of crows, making a meal of an old dead farmer in his old red barn.

Dusk lowered its hand upon the old abandoned farm. The evening stretched out far too quietly, and there was no sign of a crow. It was as if the dirty dozen had never been there at this old red barn.

Dusk magically transformed into night, as she spread her dark blanket upon a farmer in his everlasting sleep.