The Littlest Murder

(After Russell Edson’s Counting Sheep)

by Gabriel Moseley

In a bunker beneath the Sonoran desert, a scientist holds up a test tube full of crows. He
shouts a silent victory shout. He bounces up and down on the bright blue exercise ball he uses to
combat his declining posture.
The crows are the size of fruit flies. They still flap their wings like crows. He wonders if
he should create a more natural environment for his crows. Maybe a bonsai tree, next to a little
puddle. He could shrink some Koi. But crows are scavengers, like us. He might as well shrink
some telephone poles and an abandoned factory. A tiny dumpster, reeking of trash.
Maybe it would be better to make them bigger instead of smaller? He imagines a crow
the size of his house in the middle of the khaki suburbs of Phoenix. He imagines this crow
perched on top of his house, staring into him like a monstrous god.
Bigger crows might be more commercially viable? But maybe, with a little tinkering,
small crows could still serve a tactical purpose.
He wonders if crows would still be crows if they were white. Surely an albino peacock is
not a peacock. He wonders if a group of tiny crows should still be called a murder. He wonders if
a normal crow could understand their squeaky little caws.
He pulls off the rubber test tube cap.
The tiny crows fly toward the fluorescent, burning sun.