The Crows

I saw a murder of crows a while back. The air was brisk, and I was in the parking lot next to a cemetery. They were cawing, each one louder than the one before. They would circle something out in the middle of the cemetery, and then they would all come back to the old tree. They were watching something and cawing. I felt lucky to have seen the way they spoke together in agitation. The sound of their cawing was piercingly disruptive and impressive at the same time.​

​I wish I would have whipped out my phone and taken a quick video of it. I was too perplexed and excited at the sight to do anything more than stare and wonder why they were so frenzied. I didn't jump the cast iron fence to inspect the cemetery grounds, although I briefly thought about it. I also thought about how it would look: me upside down, foot caught in the fence, waiting for help. I would be the next thing to be circled and cawed at. In a way, though, I didn't want to interrupt the ordeal the crows were trying to get through. There is a dark beauty surrounding cawing crows sitting in a rickety old tree on the cemetery grounds. I am drawn to that kind of beauty and didn't want to disturb the happenings that were taking place. I hope everyone gets to be part of what speaks to them, dark or vibrant, silly or sullen, real or fictional. Life is about experiences; this, I am sure. Write about something you wish you would have investigated more. What would you have found, and how would that change where you are at today? Happy Writing! Dusty