A MURDER OF CROWS

A challenge. Paint birds flying. Paint crows flying. Crows are master aviators. They look like they are flying with wings made from the tattered strips of the night sky. They own grace. They choose to take it easy. They love the shamble. They are the Walter Matthaus, the Neil Youngs, the Janis Joplins of the sky. They are the motor cycle gang. Always going somewhere...no rush. No straight lines for my shadow friends. They get where they need to go. Crow love is permanent. Unlike the human kind they mate for life. They sing the blues... or should we call it the blacks. Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, Louis Armstrong. It ain’ pretty but it gets the job done. They eat the dead. So what? Why waste a smorgasbord just because it’s a day or two cold. And sure as shootin’ they have figured us bozos out. A cinch. Gypsies in black velvet conning the dupes. A murder of crows. What better pall bearers for a suicide? Taking the white soul up high over the CROW near the SEVEN SISTERS away from the four corners of the globe. Crows are happy to be alive. They survive. They get the joke. Caw caw. CAW