"Murder One"

     The crows followed me again today. I think they are slowly accepting me. They seem very formal dressed all in black; but you can tell that they are outlaws. They used to swoop and screech at me. Now, they hop along the grass, not even bothering to fly off as I run by.


     There is a small group out at this time of morning. Commuters stick to the main roads, and can't be seen or heard in the quiet neighborhoods. The crows have the run of the place, and I am clearly on their turf. I think that they can sense that not only do I mean them no harm, but that I also have a deep respect for them. I am no longer an outlaw myself, but they can tell my sensibilities are of the accepting kind.


     They go about their business of casing the area, making no attempt to conceal their pilfering. They watch me still, but with less concern. They are great observers and opportunists. They take what they need with no fear of consequence. The human population deludes itself into imagining this a polite society we live in; but in truth, it is still the Wild West, and the gunslinging crows know it.


     They carry on as they always have, long before our sprawling cityscapes covered the land. They bide their time and scoff as we hurry past; rushing to our inconsequential jobs and meetings, convinced of our own importance. They notice a small contingent of us who seem to look past the facade of our own making, and see the world as transitive. I nod to them in deference and pay my respects to their higher understanding.