The crows will kill us all... [03.05.02]
Ever seen that Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds? Even if not, we all know the story: in a small northern California town, crows and other usually harmless birds viciously attack the inhabitants for no apparent reason. Pretty simple story, really, but it was a rather terrifying film. Nothing could stop those crows (I recollect crows most clearly): doors, windows, walls, all was futile. No one was safe. People could try hiding in houses, but the newfound raptors would dive down the chimney and rip the poor townsfolk to shreds. Cars were certainly not an option; the birds would simply break through a window.
But on to the point of this entry: I am convinced that such a thing will happen in my birthplace and current home, Pomona. Why, you ask? Firstly, the crow population is enormous, especially near my house. Lone crows sitting on lampposts, murders (a group of crows is actually called a "murder," frighteningly enough) flocked in the bare branches of winter trees, all cawing, always cawing, squawking in their own secret language, indecipherable by humans. And in that harsh tongue of theirs, the crows plan our destruction, prepare flight paths, establish major targets (the mayor, naturally, and other such important people), devise the most effective methods of disemboweling a small child, plot our slaughter.
Every time I walk outside, the crows, perched in trees, on streetlights, stop squawking, fall silent, and contemplate their future prey. Casually, they discuss how long it would take to rip my heart from its shielding ribcage, how quickly they could gouge my eyes with their razor-sharp talons, sizing me up with their beady black eyes. They plan to compare times when the attack occurs and ante up acorns for the bet.
Perhaps more suspicious than the sheer number of crows in the area is their strange behavior. Oftentimes when I walk early in the morning (as I am prone to do), I see a crow poised on the door of a car, clinging to the rubber strip that borders the window, pecking savagely at the glass. (I kid you not.) With this I feel my fears are irrefutably confirmed: they are practicing already, not at full strength, of course, as they do not wish to arouse suspicion with a broken window (although it could probably be blamed on ne'er-do-wells flinging rocks), but practicing nonetheless. I'm sure they have camps somewhere, perhaps high in the hills, where humans rarely travel, where they may drill their attacks, rending the worn flannel of stolen scarecrows, tearing straw from their stuffed and lumpy forms. Where the crow army may experiment on diving techniques, share tips on getting a good grip on even the slickest head of hair (the better to claw and flap with), ruminate on the benefits of keeping one's beak sharp.
What are concerned Pomonians to do? The answer is obvious: flee! Escape the city before the madness begins, and carcasses are found in the streets, seeping blood, victims of the wrath that had been roiling within the crows for decades, the inner turmoil that had metastasized until it was the sole driving force. Next time you're out for a stroll and see a crow, note your predator well. Imagine its jet plumage dripping with the blood of your friends and family, gobbets of flesh clinging to its talons, its glossy eyes shining with rage and death. And be afraid. Be very afraid....
[Exit Orpheum.]
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