A few weeks ago, when strolling through the quaint streets of the coast side village of Mendocino, my feet insisted on walking toward the bluff. High overhead flocks of brown pelicans flew by, while down below seagulls tormented picnickers relaxing on the beach.

            Waves crashed repeatedly, the swells growing larger as the tide came in. A few brave souls rode the crests on boogie boards, while further out, a group of teenagers stood on paddle boards.

            Considering the chill wind that had blown all day long, the fog slowly drifting in, and the pale blue sky, everyone in the water must be freezing.

            I tugged my jacket closed, then fumbled with the zipper which refused to engage. I tried over and over, holding together the two parts of the zipper until, thankfully, it decided to cooperate.

            By the time I had my jacket zipped up, I was shivering.

            Despite the magnetic attraction to remain on the bluff, I turned and headed back to the board-walked streets of downtown.

 I stopped at the park, intrigued by a murder of crows, dodging each other’s beaks as one-by-one they fight over the remains of some treats that walkers had tossed their way. The winners often flew up to the pointed roofs, enjoying their well-earned reward.

The scene was incredibly relaxing, and since there was room at one of the picnic tables. I sat, with back against the top, to watch and hopefully find inspiration for a story.

I’d just bought a new journal at the bookstore in town. The cover was a deep blue with a wavy grain running from left to right. It was just the right size: big enough to get down the beginnings of a story, but small enough to fit in my shoulder bag.

The crows performed swoops and dives, cawing all the while, flapping wings and dancing on their feet.

To me, they resembled participants in a talent show, so that’s the setting I chose.

My character, an older single woman who sang in her church choir, was dating one of the members: a handsome gray-haired man, about her height, with an infectious laugh and a love of travel.

All was going so well that Margie expected an engagement ring to be raised on their next date. She’d thought about remarrying, about what it had felt like when her first husband passed away when shopping at the grocery store, and how liberating it was to no longer be under his beck and call.

Margie had sworn to never let another man run her life, but here was Samual, the kindest, most thoughtful man she’d ever known.

During choir practice Friday night, her friend Lola pressed a tiny note into Margie’s hand.

“Read this late,” Lola had whispered.

Well, the note said that she’d seen Samual at Roxy’s, a fancy restaurant in downtown San Francisco. His hands gripped those of a tiny redhead, and he’d been planting kisses on her cheeks, neck and even down her arms!

Margie shook her head in dismay. Samual might try to claim this other woman was “just a friend”, but Margie wasn’t stupid or gullible.

I was well into the story, plotting out what happened next, when a raucous group of juvenile crows surrounded me. Three were on the table top, pecking my hair and shoulders. Two danced down by my feet, running in to attack my shoestring, then backing away. They seemed to have coordinated their movements, as first one ran up, then as that one was backing off, the other charged in.

The squawking intensified as they moved closer and closer.

I slid my notebook into my bag and hurried away. The force of the wind sent me flying north, up the street toward my hotel.  The crows went with me, swooping down close to the top of my head, then shooting straight up, complaining loudly.

It wasn’t until I’d begun the climb uphill past the cemetery that the crows finally left me alone.

Back in my hotel room, I first spent time sitting in the old-fashioned arm chair that faced the window. Outside an array of flowers swayed in the wind as the fog settled closer and closer to the ground.

The sunny day turned gray in a matter of minutes. What once was an inspiration for a skewed love story took on an ominous tone in my mind.

I opened the journal and continued writing, not noticing when a murder to three crows landed outside my window.