I was walking home to my apartment. Across the street from where I live, there is a Catholic church with Gothic architecture. On this particular night, there were at least a hundred crows buzzing around the church in a great swirling mass of black. Others perched on trees. The branches were at maximum capacity, drooping under the weight of the crows. The scene was straight out of a horror story, except the stories fail to mention that the birds shit on the sidewalk until the ground is covered like a Jackson Pollock painting. They were instinctively restless from the imminent arrival of winter.
I walked upstairs deeply affected by what I had just seen. And so I made a sketch of a crow.
I told J about the pun, “quid pro crow.”
“How about quid pro fro?” J responded.
“Nah, that’s a bit of a stretch.”