Peace is

a quiet flock of crows overhead, commuting home to their evening roost.  Technically, the correct term for a flock of crows is a murder of crows, but I have always felt that it is an unfair designation.  

I have noticed that when crows fly together in a large group, they do not caw loudly, as one might expect.  Instead, they emit a sort of raspy chirp, which I suppose serves as chit chat among bird friends.  Other than those few quiet sounds, they glide silently, black wings stark against the winter sky.  

The crow has been my favorite animal for a long time.  It is not the fastest or most beautiful of birds. However, its perseverance and ingenuity sets it part from most other species.  Where a more delicate animal might die, scrappy crows thrive in the face of adversity.  They are stubborn, like me.