In the dusk’s heavy breath, where the light falters, shadows convene—a murmuration of silhouettes stitching the sky into something alive and wrong. A fever-dream of midnight wings settles over the rooftops, too many bodies moving as one, not a flock, a Covid of crows descending like a shroud, an uninvited specter.

Their blackened forms, a soft susurrous stirring the wind, a mournful whisper that rustles through the barren trees like skeletal fingers, beckoning the darkness in this desolate landscape, they congregate a haunting presence, a plague of darkness their eyes, like polished onyx, glinting with a malevolent intelligence, a cold calculation.

Their calls, a cacophonous dirge echoing through the empty streets a haunting requiem, a lament for the lost a mournful serenade, a melancholy hymn in their wake, a trail of shadows a dark procession, a funeral cortège that winds through the city’s deserted heart, leaving death and despair in its wake.

Yet, in their darkness, a strange beauty a haunting allure, a mesmerizing spectacle a dance of shadows, a ballet of death, a Covid of crows, a haunting, a plague, a shadow that haunts the city, a constant presence a reminder of mortality, a harbinger of doom a dark omen, a foreboding specter that looms over the landscape, a haunting, a shadow.