A Murder of Crows

He thought of descriptive words and the choices languages make. A pack of wolves, a bunch of flowers, a murder of crows. Collective nouns have a playful quality to them, he thought, because they often appear to exist without reason. He had traded his surroundings for something new, which meant that he was changing rapidly from moment to moment. At times, the thought of it made him panic, but then he remembered to breathe. Why breathing so often became a conscious endeavour to him he could not fathom - it seems to come so naturally to everyone else.

Everyone assimilates life in a unique and individual way. The behaviourist, of course, is able to identify certain patterns that are collective. One is able to speak of German precision, English reservedness, Japanese efficiency, Irish hospitality, but to the individual, adaptation occurs privately. To this new Dubliner, the darker nature of things seemed comforting. The sight of a crow and its murder pulled the corners of his mouth slightly upward. He derived a tiny pleasure from the sight of it, which he coupled with the oddity of the words that accompany it.

He allowed his imagination a brief flap of a wing and was introduced to a new character he had not yet met. His name could still be decided, but he was writing a letter of his experiences in a new place to a woman who had stayed behind...

My Dearest Loretta,

The experience of relocating has proved everything it promised to be. I am overwhelmed everyday by things I had never known and by places my mind had never gone. I tell you this, because I know you'll appreciate it. Yesterday, I saw a crow, Loretta. Yes, we spoke of it often. To live in a place where Gothic imagery flourished. Of course, I do not include certain adolescent individuals pierced and tattooed and garbed in black velvet, but the sight of crows, wells, canals, Victorian bridges and pointed towers are abundant.

I took a digital photograph, which I shall send you upon the improvement of my technical competence. But I could not help but feel as though taking a picture and writing about it to you was not enough. If only one were able to drink such a sight in for all that it was. If only one were able to drink in that crow.

I don't know whether the contents of this letter are appropriate, especially as this is my first letter to you since my departure. One should perhaps rather speak of experiences at the immigration bureau, the price of chicken, fish and jaffa cakes (the latter of which has proved delightfully cheap), but these are my thoughts, Loretta, and I know you understand them.

I shall send you news of my experiences at the immigration bureau soon, but for now I need to dash.

Yours truly

?

He laughed privately to himself. Who are these people that he thinks of so often? And why do they have desires such as to drink things in? Perhaps they keep him from madness. If he were able to think of them and their ways, it meant that perhaps these qualities do not manifest in him. Either way, a new day has dawned and new experiences await.