For many years, Franklin Long took morning walks along the river. When he was young, his walks were runs, even in the winter when it snowed. As he got older, the runs slowed to walks. Finally, in his twilight years, he started using a long stick to support himself and he rarely walks alone anymore.
“What’s that over there, Grandpa?” Franklin’s youngest grandson, twelve-year-old Foster pointed away from the river bank, just a few hundred feet ahead of them.
“We must wait, Foster. This is a solemn ceremony.”
“But Grandpa, they’re birds.”
“No, Foster. They are crows.”
They both watched with interest, though Foster’s hands and feet were starting to get cold.
“There must be a hundred of them in that circle. Aren’t groups of crows called a ‘murder’?”