Written during lunch today, polished this evening.
There's about a dozen crows directly across the road from me, up in the bare top branches of an old pecan tree.
It stands a good one hundred and fifty or so yards from my front glass doors, and the end of the season has stripped it to bare, pale branches. The crows keep flying upwind, moving a short distance as a very loose group, then landing in the top branches of another tree, then moving along again. It makes me think of a bunch of old Hasidic Jews, somber looking in their black coats and hats, walking up a street somewhere as a group. The slow ones keep yelling to the few in front who are moving faster and are obviously deaf; they go on a ways then settle down to rest on a park bench to wait until the slow ones in the group catch up.
They all sit there on the bench and bicker in loud voices for a few minutes, about the weather, about the pace, about the destination, then a few move on ahead again and stop, to win one more small battle in the war of walking several blocks.