Murder of Crows by Rick Hartford

A murder of crows. First, one, then two. Soon, hundreds move across the sky, wings urgently beating over the city as the sun goes down. Orange fades to grey in Hartford's Frog Hollow, the breath of winter in the air. In their long tail tuxedo jackets, they settle into the trees, looking, on the edge of night, like bulbous black leaves on stark branches. They carry on a loud conversation, warning of an intruder below. A drug dealer appears on the deserted street next to the woods, the usual approach, with wary eyes. Is there something that you need? he asks, helpfully. You tell him about the crows. He is not particularly interested in the crows. Folklore has it that a "murder of crows" refers to the flock holding court to deliberate the fate of a sinner. It can be one of their own. Perhaps. When spring comes they won't roost here anymore, but in the winter they are one of the city's beautiful mysteries. Grown quiet as they are silhouetted against the full moon. Has a verdict been rendered?