The crows. They laugh at me.

A couple of weeks ago, I was out on a walk.

As saturday began to creep towards his armchair, searching for slippers and pipe, I began to notice dark cirrus clouds extending themselves out across the downtown eastside.

As befits the area, I observe a [crash?] of crows, gathering overhead in an invitingly Hitchcokarian manner.
And it begins to appear as if this moment may have been stitched together by the good Lord Himself, purpose built for my little russian box to permanently capture onto kodak film for all of eternity to admire.

So I stand underneath this pylon.
In an alleyway.
And wait.
For the perfect moment.
For them to land.
So I can take the picture.
And leave.

But they dont.

They sit and smirk.
For half an hour.

Until a man comes and chases me away.

And so my picture becomes a pylon; villainous crows just out of shot.