Crows

Swirling around the twisted tree, ragged scraps of inky fabric fluttering against the dark grey November sky, tossed carelessly into the wind only to drift to rest in the ancient, gnarled pine.

What news, what news, cousins? Tell me a story...

Cold, damp, cutting day, and they're circling, making a vortex of feathers and caws, wings spread wide, floating in place before diving into the sheltering embrace of the grandfather tree. How will he hold them all?

What news, cousins, what news? History keepers, tell...

It is neither day nor night, but rather some in-between time of no sun, no moon, half-light and rain, of shadows and illusions and hidden things creeping through the gloaming, unseen until they launch from the branches into the teeth of the wind, dodging the pelting rain.

Tell me cousins, what have you seen? Tell, cousins, tell...

This isn't a murder, it's a spree, a confetti of birds ebbing and flowing, blending into the dark places of one tree, leaving his neighbor bereft of inhabitants, limbs unweighted by signs and portents and their dark silence.

What news? Tell...