Grouped and soaked, clumped and wet, cold and deep and eerily eternal, the three slouch over their frames with a careful and unflinching rigidity. When moving, the damp collections of clipped feathers make the sound of black grass covered in thick water. On a night like tonight, when the moon is gone from the heavens and the stars in the sky seem like a serpentine fog of cosmic light, their eyes buzz outward from their sockets with a kind of low intensity that can be heard well enough before being seen.
They all blink in unison while grumbling quite low. This was a good night.