There are crows in the tree outside my kitchen window. There must be a dozen of them there. I can hear them there, talking to one another in a cacophony that I try to tune out.
I am reminded that a gathering of crows is called a murder. Makes me wonder who decided that was a cool name for a sleek black beast that looks at you like it can see through your soul. Whoever he was, dude was an asshole.
All I wanted was a glass of milk, and yet when I look out the window, there are black eyes staring toward me. They’re still talking. I kind of think it’s about me. I can imagine what they’re saying, and with my imagination, that’s not a good thing. Those cawing sounds are declarations of malicious intent. They’re plotting how best to kill me, and I fear the day they discover how to create fire. My house is not exactly flame-retardant. One little fire and I’ll be out there, throwing wet sheets on the flames while being dive-bombed by feathered assassins bent on reducing me to little more than a dinner treat in fuzzy slippers.
Stop looking at me, crows. Just stop. I don’t know what your natural enemy is, but I bet I can go on the internet and buy a bobcat or cougar or something, and then convince it that crow is like some kind of feline happy meal. That’ll show you. Creepy-ass talking birds.
Elements: wet sheets, fire, corvids, milk