The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The crows of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock.
A crow had gleefully found half a pie, had stolen away to the top of a tall tree with it. The young ones assembled first, of course. Training was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play.
The crow with the half pie was in the center of everything by now, and she held her wings out desperately as the other crows moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A crow hit her on the side of the head. Old Man crow was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve the crow was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves the crow beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," the crow with the half pie screamed, and then they were upon her.