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Murder Of Crows
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There are times when the very cables of reality weave themselves together in just such a pattern as to seemingly curse your very existence.
Times when all you have are questions and there are no answers.
Frank could write a novel about such times.
So listen to this. True story, straight out of Frankland. But this is me reminding you before the story begins that there exists fiction and non-fiction. Now, this is a true story of Frank but I’m not going to say one way or the other if its fiction or non-fiction. Honest to god and the flying devils this is going to sound like I’m making it up. And I might be. But I also might not.
I would say it was just another morning. Because there have been lots of mornings so far, haven’t there? But once upon a time in Frankland there was this particular morning when he arrived at work. He got out of his car and set out on the three block hike to his building.
The time was 7am. It was four days before the winter solstice. At 7am there was enough light in the sky to see by, but it was fragile December light.
Frank made his way down the early morning city street, yawning, blinking, and... and… and what was that up in the sky?
Surely, Frank must still be at home, asleep and dreaming this. For there, above him in the sky over downtown Sacramento amassed the largest flock of birds Frank had ever seen.
Crows.
There were literally thousands of them.
Thousands of crows blotted out the sky—a crow eclipse. Thousands more perched in trees. Thousands more coming from the west. Thousands more flocking to the north.
And their chorus was loud enough to make Frank consider turning back for his car… a war cry times a thousand coming in full blast: AH! AH! AH! AH!
Frank was due at work. So, he made his way across 6th street and headed south towards his building. The other half dozen or so people on the sidewalk looked upward in disbelief at the crow-pocalypse.
Frank crossed G street and beheld a sight that was unsettling. One of the massive flocks was a mere thirty feet off the ground and flapping in his direction. The unsettling part was this: there upon the sidewalk all around him came thousands of rain drops hitting the cement.
Rain drops?
No, sir, no, ma’am. It wasn't rain at all, it was bird shit.
Thousands of crows raining shit from the heavens.
Frank ran.
He bolted into the street to avoid the path of the incoming flock.
A lady back toward the parking lot shrieked as one of the crows made a direct hit.
It was an all out attack.
Someone yelled, “Run! Get atta here! Go!”
Frank fled down the sidewalk. He weaved around trees, each filled with crows all sitting there fat and black while their squadrons of friends patrolled the sky and rained shit down onto scampering humans.
Frank had nearly covered the three blocks to his building. He spotted the entrance doors some twenty yards ahead. But then, beneath one festooned tree, he came to a huge accumulated hill of splattered droppings the size of a swimming pool. A shit pool.
The bastards had road blocked him.
One of the massive flocks carrying out the aerial attack angled back around and was coming up behind Frank in an ambush.
There was no other choice. Frank would just have to find a hose for his shoes: he tip toed over the lake of shit like Jesus walking on water.
For one freaky moment his left shoe slipped….
But he pinwheeled his arms and kept his balance.
Once safely on the other side of the shit lake more rounds fell from above, smacking the sidewalk and scarcely missing him by centimeters.
He darted past a final tree, its branches heavy with beaked snipers, and finally made it to the west doors of his building.
He slammed inside, let the doors close behind him and looked out the glass for a long while as the well coordinated attack raged on.
Then he went to the elevators and hit floor 4. On the ride up, he examined his jacket and pack, and noted with mingled surprise and relief that he had not been hit.
Now I ask you.
What in the HELL was that all about?