No way can this be normal. A wheelbarrow full of crows came riding over the sun rise horizon. You'll have to take my word for it. They were sitting in rows.

In these twitter-warp days, they were like sitting ducks. When Presidential angst needs a shotgun barber. Feathers, long hair and such, call for acrid gun smoke in a one chair shop.

Which customers were leaving in a hurry. The wheelbarrow became a Coast Guard cutter fleeing a tsunami. A rolling cacophony.

Wouldn't it be a circus, maybe like trained elephants deserving applause? Crows are an unruly lot. It would be a 100 proof satisfaction. Unbelievable.

The Crow nation scattered sidewalk strollers, and a bum just looking for a sandwich. Foreshadowing lingering doubts were the sun slingers, who follow such events like flies.

“Morning, Jimbo!”

“ 'Say, Crow. How's the wife   and egg?”

“Trouble. There's reporters    trying to see into the nest.”

“Is that for real?”

“It's a scramble up there.”

Sun slingers, thought Jim.

“There's no privacy, Jim. Used to be, building a nest was free. No permit

required.”

“It's the liberals, Crow. They all chatter Crows Matter. But to get that permit

you have to check 'I Agree' and twenty pages of fine print. And you know . . .

right?”

“Yeah. It's like Jack said, Daniel would've hidden that still somewhere.

But here it is.”

“Here it is, Crow. Now we got to register the AK-47. Deplorable.”

Jim, Jack and Daniel and the Crows in unbelievable rows like pews, all reached a fork in the road. To the left was a sign, 'Airport.' To the right, 'Mexico.' A wall was going up with BIG graffiti! Humpty Dumpty in psychedelic heaven.

Could the tale go tragic, Humpty broken for an omelet? But with a one chair shop and no union there would be an arbitrated settlement, rather boring.

Metal detectors might boost readership with X-rays, sniffer dogs on down to biometrics, DNA samples and,

“You did check 'I Agree,' right?”

“You Crows are the hope of the free world,” he added.

Jim was on a roll now, laughing at the wheelbarrow. Those things are so

nineteenth century. He congratulated himself on awareness of automation,

Amazon fulfillment centers. Drones. And whiskey.

The wheelbarrow, unfazed, rolled out into brilliant sun. From the galley:

“Hey, Jimbo!”

“Hey, Crow!”

JIM CROW!