A Perfect Crime

         The crows cawed to each other in the treetops. Below them in the clearing lay the body of a peasant. Some had already landed a few feet away, strutting slowly towards the unmoving figure, becoming bolder with each passing moment.
         A short distance away smoke curled over the trees. Under the smoke lay a once-thriving village, a small cluster of wood and thatch that should have been a hive of activity at this time of year as the inhabitants prepared for the harvests reaped from the fields just beyond. Those fields now smoldered, the tall stalks as burnt and broken as the bodies that lay scattered among the rows.
         The crows waited patiently. A few of the young ones had already tried to get close to the prone bodies only to be driven back by the heat of the fires, singed feathers their only prize. The others knew well enough they needed only to wait. Eventually the fires would lessen and the feast could begin.
         When the fires died, there would be only ashes. When the crows had finished, there would be only bones. When the years rolled by, there would be nothing left; no ash, no bones. Only the crows would remain. Only the crows would remember. It was the perfect crime in a a lawless world.