Winging my way through the pre-dawn sky, I sailed to the top of the lone pine towering above the scrawny spruces and firs, the birches and cottonwoods. As is my right, the new 'corvus brachyrhynchos' regent of the boreal forest, I strutted and preened on the stout perch, preparing to summon my comrades and friends.
Before the first streak of pink in the heavens appeared, I cleared my throat of the previous night's Bacchanalian orgy of meat, drink, and delights of the fairer sex, and sent forth my raucous commands: "CARAW, CARAW, CARAWWWW!"
My first round was not yet ended when the most trustworthy of the band had joined in with a cacophonous chorus, and within another minute the voices of thousands of my legions were raised to welcome the glory of the rising sun.
At my command, they took to the air, 48-thousand strong, black wings flashing, black eyes beading, black hearts soaring, then breaking off into obsidian armies, for today we had the numbers to finally defeat our mortal enemy, the Great Horned Owl, a society of which was scattered over a two hundred square mile area.
We descended upon them like the proverbial black plague, killing young and old, feeble and virile, leaving not a single survivor.
Today we have lived up to the term, A MURDER OF CROWS.