The first crow appeared in the yard, followed by a second and a third. A fourth. A fifth. More. Still more. Crows everywhere, squawking loudly as they touched down, arrogant in their numbers. Peter and Sonja watched, standing far back from the picture window. "They're punch drunk from landing," Peter whispered, staring straight ahead. "Exhausted and sloppy," Sonja added, not moving. "Insolent," Peter hissed. Sonja touched his arm to soothe him. "Be patient," she said softly. "We will soon remind them why it's called a "murder" of crows." The lawn turned into a moving layer of black, and still they stared (their eyes huge) as the owl spirit screeched inside of them.