A Murder of Crows

I was stopped in my tracks on this morning by the sight of crows on a farmer's field. They were swirling in a group, rising, falling, moving across the golden land. The bird shapes looked like swirls or squiggles to me, each one the mere whisper of a brush stroke on a Japanese painting. Bird art on the land.

Then there was this tree. I drive past it every day, and every day it stands alone. Except on this day, it was NOT alone. It was enveloped by birds, became part of their painting.

The crow is significant in mythology, and means different things to different peoples. For the superstitious, the sight of crows may mean the fulfillment of dreams. Or impending death. Some believe that crows can bring back messages from those who have passed on to the next place. (And, interestingly enough, a group of crows is called "a murder of crows.")

I cannot speak with any expertise on all those things. I am just a watcher of crows. I can tell you this, though: to witness a group of crows move across an open landscape is a hypnotic thing.

The song to accompany this photo is the Black Crowes, with a rare acoustic version of She Talks to Angels.