No surf worth riding so I wheeled out the Electra. The deadly treadly had been getting down and dirty on the some epic rides through the summer rain before the creeks rose too high. Then I saw them in the paddock at the back of the empty high school. I stopped counting at 25. Their huge black necks looked menacing. They were making a racket. I've heard they sometimes attacked cyclists on their own. A fence separated us. I cycled harder. The wind and the rain beating as fast as my heart. A murder of crows. Sworn enemy of the cane toad. Nana Brine's favourite bird. Having their very own summertime Splendour in the Grass.
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