Today's rain moved in after the evening's clear sky had allowed the temperature to drop lower than the odds of the Canucks making the play-offs in spring. The morning drizzle was cold as the beer in my fridge. My dog loves it; I am already looking forward to seeing the first leaves on the salmonberry bushes next year.
I took my dog down by the river. The mountains are real close but they were hidden behind the river coloured air. On our walk we encountered the biggest murder of crows I have ever seen. There were thousands of the black motherfuckers perched in the mangled willows, hopping on the trail and feeding in the nearby farmers' fields. It was spooky with crows squawking their trick language and swooping at the Hammer and I.
When I got home I had a nap. While I slept I dreamt of the black bastards poking my eyeballs out with their talons and their beaks.
When I awoke I poured myself a home run. Ravens are alright but the crows around here could use a good culling if you ask me.
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