1420, a good year to be a crow

1420 must have been a good year to be a crow. Yes, a crow. A back-of-a-cave black, cackling crow. War, freshly plowed fields, and gallows. Not great for humans, but fantasy land for a crow.

I don’t know for sure, as I’m not a crow, but I do have an imagination that could make myself a crow, maybe just for this morning. What, you’re telling me you’ve never wondered what it would be like to be a crow?

War: I fly above the battlefield, waiting until the arrows finish flying and the swords stop swinging. The second it ceases, scavenging starts. The battlers are much too tired or too dead to care about me. I prance around the field doing what I please. Man, is it good to be a crow.

Fields: My enemies lie in the freshly plowed fields. I see some seeds to eat. They’re everywhere. But my enemies, those little puny farm boys, wait for me to swing down. So I wait until dark. Dumb kids. Everyone knows a crow’s smart, except for a naive little farm boy. I eat my fill and fly away. My blackness blending into the night sky, cackling loudly so to taunt the farm hands. Man, it is good to be a crow.

Gallows: More death means more food. They first appear just as shadows swinging from trees. Once I get closer, I realize they’re food for me! The humans who hoist them up to warn others love when we come around. I think we help the horror. Black angels of death, they call us. The biggest compliment to us, as death means more food. Man, it is good to be a crow.