The crows at their bath

Next to the babbling brook, I sat quietly reading Neale and Littledale.

One by one the crows came down from their perches in the Gary Oaks, up to twenty at once, dipping their black paws into the cool fresh water, framed against a clear blue sea visible over the field, a ship passing lit by the sun, the mountains and their glaciers in the south. The crows were not gossiping as they sometimes do, or cooing to their young, but dipping themselves like ducks into the water, having decided it was not too cold for a real swim.

One climbed the rocks to the head of the brook within 6 feet of my perch and dipped there in a solo pool, flapping his wings to douse himself with water. Another followed him to this private bath. They took turns.

The crows scattered back to the trees. A woman came by, walking her dog.