Someone, I’m
not sure who, keeps setting the crows to go off early in the morning. There are, I’d bet, worse ways to wake up,
which is one reason we didn’t buy a house on the 7th fairway. Old men in plaid pants chattering about gas
mileage, or Betsy – in accounting is not something I care to hear outside my
window as they stroll by, scratching down their lies with stubby pencils.
I much
prefer a gentle arrival to the day, waking slowly, assembling my thoughts as to
what day it is, anticipating my morning coffee, mentally speculating about the
outrageous news stories I might hear.
But NO. Crows, crows are
announcing to the world that they didn’t like last night’s thunderstorm, or
they are fighting over the squishy remains of a varmint jaywalker.
Going back
to sleep is not an option, not after what I just heard. Keep in mind, my crow might be a little
rusty, but apparently Betsy is the squishy jaywalker. Some unfortunate timing with her husband
coming home unexpectedly and seeing his actual Dear in the headlights.
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