Wild crimsons, royal blues, and evergreens flew high as the afternoon breeze caught the banners. The heat from the sun only added to the anticipation and tension hanging thick in the air. Horns and battle drums blended and battled in a deafening cacophony over the chosen ground.
At the edge of the fray, the trees grew ever more crowded. Beady eyes, set above jet black plumage and beaks watched, and waited.
As each side rallied, their leaders orating and driving their faithful, they waited. They were secure in the knowledge that they would stand the victors on that day, without ever lifting any weapon. Today, they were the ones with the foresight for victory.
As man’s ambition and reach for power overwhelmed reason, the two sides clashed. Drums and horns were replaced with the screams of terror and pain only war and strife could motivate.
Still, they anticipated, and stood patiently, their numbers growing into an army of their own.
Today, on the day of battle, the only true victors waited on the edge of the battlefield. As the clashing of sword and spear ceased, only then did they make their move. As victory cries died down and the songs honouring the fallen faded, only then did they begin to circle. The spoils theirs, and theirs alone.
They lost precious few in number, if any. Man, in his romanticist fantasies credits the owl as the wisest of birds. Yet today, the crows were the true victors.