Fifty crows sit on the tree. They enjoy the last few minutes of quiet before the dawn. All know what the sun brings.
The farmer appears, at first a shadow on the horizon, then a a tweed coated monster, ever encroaching.
He fires his gun. The bang shakes every branch, the projectile shreds leaves and feathers. The survivors gather together, and fly to the heavens, to where the air became thin and cold. The mothers push on their children, past planets and satellites and comets, and the murder silhouettes against the sun.
Crows can only last so long up here. One by one the birds freeze, and join the stars in their forever twinkle. But they are happy. For out here they remain together, forever, and the farmer’s gun is far away.