crow - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There was nothing but silence in these arcane woodlands. I couldn't see where the path of bones and dead leaves led. It all just faded into twilight. As I continued forward, a glint of light caught my attention and what followed was a sickly caw. A bird with grievous eyes and ink stained wings, seemed to float over to me with the swift movement of a wing. It landed on the branch in front of me cawed once again. I walked forward past the crow trying to ignore. I could feel it boring it's eyes into my back as if it knew I wouldn't leave this dark place.
It was a murder of crows. The branches, newly bereft of their leaves, were weighted down with birds so black they looked more like shadows, or perhaps silhouettes cut from the dawn canopy above. As the new day lightened the crows became so raucous that the noise of the traffic below was drown out and passers by cast anxious skyward glances.
All was silent now the shooting had stopped.His comrades were all dead, their bloodied bodies motionless in the mud where they'd fallen. The dying soldier looked up into the eyes of the solitary black crow, perched on a tree-stump.Had he caught a glimpse of pity? He winced in pain as he breathed his last.
The emotionless black crow stared down into the eyes of the dying man. Had it caught a glimpse of glazing? It was safe to start pecking.
Crows cover the winter trees like deformed leaves of darkest ink. At dawn passers by rarely see them for what they are, forgetting that the branches should be naked. But as the midwinter sky lightens from almost black to deep blue they can be seen for what they are, fidgeting, puffing out their wings and watching the street for the tasty garbage of the city dwellers.
With feathers black as tar the crow alights from the winter air to the frosted ground. With her ebony beak she pulls at the remnants of a take-away carton abandoned by the roadside. For the next few minutes she pays little attention to the rest of the street, ignoring the dogs that bay at passers by. She wants the salty noodles inside, like worms, only better.
In the dawn light Sera could be forgiven for thinking rain had come at last and painted the grey tarmac black. Yet as she watches the blackness moves, grey patches coming and going like transitory clouds in the sky. Then one takes flight to a nearby Maple - a crow. The street is covered in crows...
Three summers ago the crows were after the cherries from our tree. We fired stones at them from home-made catapults. They cawed, flapped their tarry wings and watched us with beady eyes. After that they dive-bombed us every-time we left the house and they still do. Even when I collect the mail I have to take an umbrella, rain or shine they are there to attack.
There is litter over the street again. The crows have ripped the bags open and strewn it over the asphalt. Now they hop between items pecking at them. Even in this bright sunshine they are black, although some appear more iridescent than others. But I can't admire them, they're a nuisance and if I could I would shoot them dead.
His carcass is a mass of crows. They fight for space, wings of blackest feathers beat the air and they cry out, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. We don't shoo them away, we know that their black beaks are tearing at the flesh, and what is underneath those frantic bodies will destroy our sanity. We knew they ate carrion but this is too much. How can these simple creatures be the undoing of us? We are rendered incapable of coherent thought or speech. Gaunt and trembling we are forced to turn away without saying our goodbyes.
The crow is a scruffy imitation of what she once was. Age has worn her feathers into tatters and she hops instead of flies as much as she can. There is something odd about the way she carries her left wing, as if it has a degree of dysfunction. Lydia watches as she wanders away to dig for worms in the recently rain-soaked grass, the sun casting a slight rainbow sheen on her back.
Leo crouched to the weathered concrete, lying there was a baby crow, stunned from its fall. It looked just like the "baby crow meme" pictures circling the internet, a fluffy ball of black with bright inky eyes. He slid his hand underneath the tiny bird and stood up, looking at her from all angles. There was no blood, with luck she was only concussed...
The studio was covered in images of crows - photographs and Sam's own paintings. Every wall was a murder of crows in print and fine oils. The birds took flight in wintry skies and sat neatly on branches of spring blossom. They dug in brilliant autumnal leaves and rested from the hot summer sun with open beaks. She took such ordinary subjects and elevated them to such heights of beauty. It was Sam's divine gift, a gift of seeing the extraordinary where the eyes of others had become overly accustomed.
The crow is my nemesis. He hops in the branches above the park bench where I eat lunch in fine weather, waiting for me to leave. He wants the left overs and to be fair I'm a pretty messy eater, by the end of it I'm brushing crumbs and fallen cheese off my pants. But I sit there in fear he'll drop a bomb on me. You know what I mean. If he does that my suit is as good as garbage. He watches me, a silhouette against the summer sky, and I know his beady eyes are calculating where every piece of tumbling food will land.