someone said, “I have to wash my truck.” I paid scant attention. I was in a room full of strangers. He continued, “There was a murder….”
“WHAT?” I interrupted. I pictured blood and guts in the back of a pickup. I pictured him furtively hosing it down.
He grinned and I knew. “A murder…” he said.
“of crows,” I interrupted again.
“that’s what they call a flock of crows.” He spoke over me. He grinned again. “They made a mess of my truck. I have to clean it off.”