The collective noun for crows is a murder.  I have only two here.  To be called a murder, I think it would need to have a lot more.  But, who’s counting?

(I’m leaving for a moment to hang my head in shame.  Short of sleep, I resorted to the easiest form of humor, a bad pun.  I’m truly sorry).

Back again.  I’ve been conversing with a reader about animals that mate for life.  Sometimes, I think I should have a Jungian psychiatrist look at my work.  Mating for life; and crows?  Must mean something.

Anyway:

 

This looks pretty true to the mood of view outside my kitchen window on a foggy morning.  I like it.

BUT!

I feel a cat drawing coming on.  Meet Pumpkin.