Murder

I love the crows that migrate through Baltimore every fall.

They remind me of being a graduate student in Kingston, Ontario.  I had a tiny office in Stauffer library, with a small window which looked out into the branches of an oak tree.  In November, the sky would be the colour of the inside of an oyster shell, the tree would be black and stark, and the crows would mill through the sky cawing.

Here the skies are slightly more colourful in November, the temperatures not quite as cold, the trees still possessed of some scant, and bright (red, yellow) foliage, but the crows loom and wheel and yell to each other in the sky, especially at dusk.

Murders of crows.  Best part of the season.