The mourning dove that had, a few moments ago, been soaring up above my head, was now below my feet, bloodied, with feathers, torn from its wings, lying lifeless on my balcony. Yet, I did nothing. I only stood and watched, as crows began to descend down from the trees, a black sea of death headed towards me. But still, I continued to watch. The crows tore out the feathers one by one, plucking the corpse bare. As the feathers that once belonged to the dove drifted off into the wind, the crows began to peck at the flesh of the bird. They moved as a single entity, pecking one at a time, only to be pushed back so another beak could devour the flesh they had long waited for. The crows feasted until all that was left was the was the poor dove’s head, feet, and wings, lying in a pool of its own blood with a silver bullet not too far away. Slowly, the crows started to take flight, each and every one of them with bloodied claws. Just as my own hands were just as bloodstained.