Rob Beaudreault
1 min readFeb 14, 2021


If you feed a murder of crows it is said that they will leave you gifts. Trinkets of trash as a reward. Spoils of this and bottle caps. Another man’s treasure sort of stuff.

I’ve never been a fan of crows and all their squawking. It’s unnerving and watchful. Apprehensive. Get them together and you have yourself a murder. You do you.

As for me, you can have them. They showed up at my aunts funeral last weekend and distracted me entirely.


I heard them coming in from the South and many they were. On the move. On the way.

Suddenly, a hawk swooshed in a tree to the East. Sentinel watch. And then another.

There they stood.

Out of South, crows approach from the East and amid a wild flurry of what looked to be Turns. Many of them. Darting. Each taking there’s at the murder in the sky.

And then a wind. A sudden and whirling one blew the grey sky in a frenzy.

Confused and attacked, they tumbled towards the North.

They never did land in that great oak next door.

On watching skies.



Rob Beaudreault

Some people called me a blogger once. Now, I’m just tucking away some words for myself and you. Here to shine a bit of light on this present darkness.