And all at once, the still blue blanket that was the twilight sky, was beaten by a silent hoofbeat which shook crows from bending treetops like black fruits dropping, or seeds sent high on a sudden gust of wind, which caught under each crow's wing and lifted the entire murder upwards, like shadow puppets yanked by unseen strings.
 

Following was a falling pause of sideways gliding, between trees and open field, waiting for more wind that came stampeding from the west, where a sunset falls asleep beneath a purple blanket, behind the silhouettes of trees on the horizon.