The rooks had been gathering, even as hunters slashed their way into the heart of the forest.
Now gunfire shatters the early evening silence, and after each volley there’s a moment’s pause before the sound of branches rustling, cracking, giving way beneath the weight of plummeting birds.
Their incessant cawing has turned to screeching until, as culling ceases, a deadly silence prevails.
The hunters withdraw.
And at dusk, a less dense but still unmistakeable parabola of blackness emerges from the tree-tops, curving, undulating, soaring.
A dance of death, a memorial, before heading to the marshlands to roost for the night.
Lovely to have a photo from an old Friday Fictioneer colleague Doug McIlroy this week. A kind, reflective, gentle man, he’s sorely missed. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting a welcome respite to the self-isolation that many of us are experiencing. Stay safe at home, keep well.