The old crow settles at the top of the conifer tree, perched to observe the land below, the people gathered in the square. Sunrise is still some hours away, and yet, they are all here, the monk, the widow Sawyer in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, the children who started the campaign to right wrongs and remind everyone how to behave, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson who only wanted to find a nice quiet community where they could blend in, the firemen and policemen, even the ambulance is here adding red and blue flashing lights to the already unreal scene. The whole town is here in the court of the crow. He caws at them, his barking laugh ringing out into the waning night. As the fog rolls in, settles close to the ground, first their feet disappear, and then their legs, their torsos, and finally their arms and heads. Just like the other nights, each is now left in isolation, alone with their thoughts, echoes of the crow to help them find their way.