With clouds of leaves and branches engulfing them, the crows balanced on rows of telephone wires, bracing themselves against the gusts of winds, raking through their feathers. A cloud with its belly distended with a purple storm roiling within, came by and growled at the crows and said, fly away. The crows cawed into the storm, their beady eyes black and moist. They knew the cloud would soon shed its storm and all would be blue and silent again.

After the storm spent its force, on the grey asphalt, the dead crows lay, their wings beaten and flattened, their feathers battered, their dead eyes blank, their black beaks shut tight, in surprise.