I just watched a murder.
Out behind the dilapidated barn, the rotting one that’s moldering its way into oblivion faster than an old writer’s body. The barn’s deep shadow is broken only by narrow sunbeams filtering through the gaps between the dry, rotting planks.
I stumbled around the corner of the barn, whistling, on my way to feeding the chickens. On the fencepost was a single avian that flew as I came into view. Just a dark winged spec receding into the sky, until the danger had passed.
Then he returned, with the rest of the crows in his murder.