The morning’s auditory backdrop is a murder of crows, or perhaps the equivalent of ravens, in the adjacent forest. At least twenty birds, just an estimate.
I wonder if there is some feast at which they have gathered. Now and again I hear one louder (perhaps higher among the trees?) than the rest. A tribal gathering? Wow. They are cheering or jeering in unison. A clan?
One has flown overhead to join the others, calling out on its way. Another joins. One has left. A messenger?
They sound like autumn migrations of geese without the visual.
And now they have moved on, all but one. Sentry?
I should have liked to watch them lift off together; the forest hid their descent through our small valley.
©2009 Sandra Davidson