Winter evenings in the South are gray, bleak events. The sky is the color of the cotton that used to fly out of the sides of the bales that the train would haul into the cotton docks. The cotton that used to lay around for several weeks and get rained on, and run over by cars. That’s the kind of color the sky was today. But it was not silent. Hundreds of thousands of blackbirds kept coming overhead in huge flocks which covered the entire horizon. Hollering and cackling and screaming in their blackbird language heading west to east. Looking for some farmer’s field laying fallow and ripe for ravaging.