At home, a year ago, we witnessed a murder of crows. They met one by one on top of the roof of the house behind ours. They flew in, one, ten, twenty-five, perhaps fifty or more until the roof was covered with black moving and cawing shadows. This was premeditated, a prearranged meeting, some plotting to be done. They stayed, conversed in their crow ways, then flew off with a bird’s eye view of what was to be done.