Chaser the Crow
With a couple of loud, flaring wing flaps, Chaser alit gracefully on the split rail fence post of a farmer's corn field. The scarecrow that was nailed to a nearby pole had started to lean to its left months ago, which afforded Chaser a wonderful perch upon which to nibble at the maturing corn gradually engulfing the scarecrow, pole and all. He chased away a few other crows trying to horn in on his territory, but they knew better than to mess with chaser; he was twice thier size, first of all. And, secondly, he was smarter than all of them put together, and they knew it. It was just easier for them to find food elsewhere...especially since Chaser had shown them another perch on the other side of the field, specifically to lure them away from his own favorite spot. He had had a successful morning; waiting on the ducks to chase minnows into the shallows had become a very successful fishing technique for him, and today, between the corn and the fish, Chaser was well nigh sated. He sat, perched on the swaying scarecrow, for a while, surveying the field-corn surrounding him. He thought of it as rightfully his, but he was not selfish. He would share with the flock. Satisfied for the nonce, Chaser took off suddenly, heading for home. His flock was not his family, after all, and it was his turn to help care for the young. His parents would need to go and hunt for their own food, they would be getting quite hungry by now. He swooped down at a tidal pool and scooped up a few minnows, flying them back to the network of small caves his family called home. Dropping the minnows at the younglings' taloned feet, he laid down at the opening of the rook, and napped as they devoured the fish. Still quite small, his siblings had begun to move on their own, and to develop their wings, but they were far from self sufficient. Chaser spent a few hours keeping them alive, and playing peek-a-boo from behind his wings, but the time came for him to depart, and he left with a fond farewell, flying high above the checkerboard of farms and fields that made up his family's territory. He loved it up here, riding on the drafts and currents of air. It was quiet, and serene, and Chaser sometimes wished he could just live his life up here forever. The first of his hunger pangs drove him from this reverie, however, and he began to circle downward to find food. Widdershins, of course.
It did not take Chaser long to find himself amongst his familiar flock, this time at a grain silo a short way from the bent scarecrow's field. The circular structure had almost as much of a lean to it as the scarecrow, truth be told, and birds were fond of flying in through the holes in the eaves to feast. The murder of crows sat, very still, watching as the grain silo burned. They numbered close to a hundred corvids, with Chaser of course the biggest and boldest among them. The birds coated a bare maple tree like a fluttering cloak of black feathers. People were involved in this fire. Two of them, both human men, were outside of the burning structure, watching the immolation along with the crows. "Well, Clancy, that's that. The old girl ain't gonna be a bother to anyone anymore." One of the People (with a capital P) said to the other. Chaser glanced down at the People from his perch at the top of the tree. The younger one, Clancy, had his hat off and clutched to his chest guiltily. "Yeah, Morg. Yeah." Clancy addressed the older man distractedly, squeazing and kneading his hat until the straw finally just fell apart. He kept staring at the silo, finally mouthing the words "Yeah, Morg. Yup."
That was the last time Clancy was ever seen by Chaser, or anyone in his flock or family. Chaser was the only crow of the farmland that wondered what ever happened to him.
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