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.
This looks pretty true to the mood of view outside my kitchen window on a foggy morning. I like it.
I feel a cat drawing coming on. Meet Pumpkin.
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