Short Stories For The Poetic Soul

-The Crows-

A murder danced around me, shifting around, pecking at the dead locusts on the concrete.

Some were up high, surveying the area from one of the cross-beams.

Others padded the floor, trying to scrape together a meal for the day.

A few cawed as they picked up the dead crickets, some fighting one another as if to tell the other,

'back off, it's mine!'

I envy the birds.
They had no responsibilities other than to find food to eat and a roof to sleep. With the warm weather here, migrating is practically foreign.

There were locusts all over the floor from the night before, fall was cricket season, they all swarmed the bright lights surrounding the stadium at night, deciding to decease at random, and falling to their death.

And when morning came, so did the crows.

Swooping in and pecking at the bugs, they swallowed them nearly whole.

The soft breeze went through their feathers as their heads bobbed to the rhythm of their feet, dancing in sync with their claws as they scoured the land for food.

A loud 'LLLLLADIES AND GENTLEMEN!' Made the birds squawk in surprise, and all fly away at once, off, into the east.