By: Brynn Gibson

Editor-in-Chief

Perched high above the commotion, a singular black-winged creature glares beadily down upon his dominion. Waves of peasants filter through the courtyard, leaving careless trails of sustenance behind. A cacophonous screech rings out; the plebeians scatter. Within moments, they are gone. The beast is left to enjoy the spoils. 

In a flash of obsidian, the figure swoops to the land below. Like a thief in the night, he moves to consume his prey. He is not alone; he is the beginning of the end. Pouring down from the rafters, the army moves in. Hoards of squashed grapes freckle the concrete. A breakfast burrito sits half-eaten next to the math building. One of the proles was silly enough to leave behind an entire bag of Cheetos. Simple minds: negligence fuels the enemy. All that is left will be devoured. 

A four-wheeled monster turns the corner. Forced to scatter, the beasts take to the skies, mobilizing for war. “CAW CAW”: their battle cry pierces the air. This tempest of avian bodies flees its perpetrator. Fronted by a tornado of crows, the Cat Statue in front of the library cowers in fear. 

It was seven in the morning on May 10, 2022. I was driving to take the AP English Language and Composition Exam. All was not well, but relatively good enough. In one hand, a Monster energy drink; in the other, the steering wheel. Windows down, my hair blew recklessly to the wind. A crow call sounded from the trees. As I neared my destination, a catastrophe unfolded before my eyes. The crow took flight, and the silver 2008 Honda Odyssey in front of me collided head-first with the beast. Falling lifelessly to the curb, he cawed his last caw. Another crow fluttered to his aid, but it was too late. His friend was dead. Looking for an answer, he looked upward. I had braked instinctively, and was left at the scene of the crime. I was the prime suspect, staring dead into the face of the vigilante. I saw the bloodlust in his eyes. I once watched a PBS Kids documentary on crows; they never forget a face. 

Ever since that fateful incident I’ve lived in fear. This is war. When will they strike next? They assemble their numbers and prepare their army. They are everywhere, hiding in the shadows, screeching from the trees. Nobody is safe, least of all me. 

Once I was walking down the street, eating my burrito. A single crow stood in my path. With each step, I expected him to move, but he didn’t. Where was his fear? Could he smell mine? What did he want from me? My tinfoil? My life? I will never know. I turned and fled.

Birds are real. But this revelation does not mean you are safe. Edgar Allan Poe had it right. Fear the raven. Fear the crow.