A murder of crows scattered eastward from Point of the Mountain, along the river yesterday. They seemed to be fleeing the oncoming snow storm. They flew in no discernable pattern, but rather scattered. Above them, again for no discernable reason, flew Finchley Flamingo. He did his best crow imitation, cawing raucously, but he did not fool anyone. The crows ignored him, the way that crows ignore anything that does not interest them.

Finchley had been hungry, and could not find his Purina Flamingo Chow. He had gone out for more. He did not want to arouse suspicion, so he flew out with the vultures. They soar high enough in the sky, that few would notice that one of them was pink. The trip back from the feed and grain store was more difficult. The vultures had taken cover from the impending storm. That left only the crows. Finchley flew high above them, to keep his size in perspective, but the fifty-pound bag of Purina Flamingo Chow seemed to grow heavier. The wind blew the murder of crows northerly across the river, and Finchley seized the opportunity, and flew back to the apartment.

“Look Mommy, a pink crow,” noticed a young girl. “Silly, crows aren’t pink,” replied her mother.

Finchley was safely back home. He would have to learn to use that Internet thing to order his Flamingo Chow in the future.

Paul (AHikingDude@aol.com)

Watch this site for more stories by Paul.


More poems and stories. Follow the list of links.

The Neighborhood Watch

Texas In The Spring


Return From Exile

Golf Syndrome

What Goes On Here?

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