At first, little more than a whispering, loosening the last
of the autumn-clenched leaves, stirring the palest of the ashes.
‘It’s coming’
‘Hours yet.’
Silent, she held her knowledge within.
Two hours passed. A
drift had formed, grey against centuries of soot. Roof slates stirred, tapping a finger-bone
tune. She whispered another warning. His eyes stayed shut, his breathing steady.
Time passed.
Air shifted, maybe five degrees, setting up a whistle ‘twixt
wood and wall.
From nowhere, howling harshness, flinging an upward torrent of the largest of them. Feathered and malevolent.
His eyes opened. ‘Crows?’
‘Aye. A murdering of them.’
[This week's words for Prediction Fiction: torrent, ashes, whistle]
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