Fi Phillips

It's all a bit bleak out there at the moment. It seems to have rained every day in January so far where I live. Dog walks are short, pavement-bound and with my eyes downcast. I took this photo on one of the few dry mornings we've had recently. The towering branches of the oak trees, dotted with crows, painted a picture of black on white. I always enjoy watching the crows which mass in these trees at the end of the road where I live. What do you think? Depressing? Foreboding? Stark? Or do you find something inspirational and thoughtful in this image? What does it inspire you to write?

At this time of year, the crows always return to nest in the trees at my children's school. The street that the school sits on is lined on both sides with hefty horse chestnut trees. The crows reside in each of those trees, a community of raggedy nests and cawing neighbours.  They're intelligent birds, majestic when seen in flight. They have ties to Norse mythology and Native American legends . They're also survivors, adapting to the spreading reach of mankind. Yet for all this, they are often dismissed as villains or henchmen. We have books about rabbits , otters , and owls , but crows rarely figure as heroes.  Years ago, a fellow member of a writing class told me a story about crows. Nancy was quite elderly by this time, American with a slow, drawling accent. She and her husband had been posted in Burma for some years (her husband had some bureaucratic role). In the grounds of their home, an old, immense tree had housed a community of crows. She call...