I open my eyes and see a dead crow hanging from the fence, his beak open. Was he shot, shot in mid-scream, as he began to sing, his raucous tune scarcely begun? He sways, his feathers still catching the wind even in death, his family and friends cawing in their grief and anger from the high elm trees above us.
It could have been him that drove away my robin and emptied her nest of her eggs. My eggs, five of them there had been, live and warm under my fingers.
Then without any warning he gets up and walks to the back of the church where he opens the door. When he gets back he explains to Mother what he’s done in his loud voice, and Grandma Wolf, sitting beside us in her black bonnet, scowls at him, at all of us.
Andrew's Blog 
Good job, Andrew. There’s something quite artistic in the choice of colours. Don’t forget page numbers. What happens if you rotate them first, in another app, and then upload the pictures in landscape format?
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