Murder

There is a murder of crows outside of my window.

They act with definite purpose, the scraps that they are looking for are the singular act they need to survive. They live, they fly, they eat, they generate more crows, they exist to simply exist. The crows have no sense of confusion or ambiguity, they have none of the conditions that plague the human heart. They are simply crows and that is all they will ever be.

There is a murder of crows outside of my window.

Sometimes I wish I could join them.