In the winter, the animals killed by traffic are covered with snow. You’d never see them at all except for the crows, which are a telltale flag. Whenever you see a group of crows jumping up and down by the side of the road, they’re sure to be tearing apart a big hunk of meat. I stopped for this group of crows, but as soon as I got out of the car
they got nervous and started to leave.
They all marched up to the railroad tracks
and took off.
This is what they left behind.
I’d heard of a storytelling of crows, and a murder of crows, but it turns out the list of collective nouns for crows goes on and on: a cauldron of crows, a caucus of crows, a congress, cowardice, hover, muster and parcel of crows.
After seeing them seething over the deer by the side of the road, I’m partial to a murder of crows for now.
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