A Murder of Crows

Seemingly out of nowhere, out of place and out of time in the severe vastness of the desert, a murder of crows found its way to us.

Sitting perched atop large rocks and black branches of dead trees, some fifty birds, tired and hungry, but ultimately alive - their frigthfully intelligent eyes twinkling with some secret mirth.

(We have survived.

We shall prevail.)

I strech out an arm, a meagre offering of dry fruit.

The crows watch, silent.

Max raises an eyebrow.

I persist.

A gust of wind.
A flap of wings.

Max smiles.

"You make new friends pretty easy, huh."