The crows were back again. Every sunset hundreds of them silently alighted on the dead tree, alone in the industrial estate. The portly, balding man locked the door behind him before dashing for his rusty Oldsmobile. Just then, as he crossed the open gravel lot, the sun rose and its light reached the top branches of the crow-tree. Immediately, every crow launched from the branches, dark wings flapped as the squawking cacophony deafened the man to his own panicked footsteps. He ran to the car, holding his tattered briefcase above his head. He fumbled with the keys, dove into the velour seat, slammed the door behind him. The crows buffeted against the windshield and roof as they flew away, to return that evening, at sunset.