The crows stare into my window, seems as if their beady little eyes bore into the very essence of my being. Pick, pick, pick, they pecked their pointy little beaks into my mother's garden. They yank up wiggling worms, gulping down, peck, peck, peck. We stare at each other, each movement of its slender ebony feathered body tracked by my gaze. What do they see? Do they see me? Or rather, through me?
My window creaked open as I find myself poking my head out. Their loud caws ring throughout the yard and echo back into my skull, as more and more crows pack my lawn. A dark mass of feathers shivering, snipping, and beady black eyes, all gorging on various bugs torn from their homes. Murder, a murder of crows.
The thing we don’t know is who they are here for, could be me or it could be you. Which death are they forewarning? Shall I slip from my window sill and join them in the garden, pick, pick, pick. They’re still staring, tearing worms apart, squabbling for either half. As they wait patiently. For what? We, or more so, I, don’t know. Could this be the psychosis dear Doctor Smith spoke about? Could this be in my head? But I hear their croaks and caws, and the snapping of their beaks. The ruffle of their feathers as they pace and flap their wings in a hurry. To get somewhere perhaps, or to get someone, me. Although we, as in me, have thoughts that are now muffled. Wild rabid dogs bark, foam dripping from bloodthirsty maws.
I take in a breath and choke on inky feathers. The air is dense and impenetrable with their velvety ebony feathers. Another drag, breathing in the source of their aviation. My throat and stomach are full of flight as my body begins to lift. Into the air I go, crows flapping beneath me, their cries, their joyous roars. Beady eyes underneath me, balancing on their gaze I surrender. The window sill is far from me now, as I am consumed. Departed from the rabid dogs barking, departed from you.
A murder of crows.
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