Nachtkrapp

Goosh Bozman watched the lone scout stall and land in the high branches of the cottonwood tree. The bird cocked its head, then gave a racus cry that was soon faintly echoed by its distant mates. "Fucking bastards." Goosh leaned back in his lawn chair and rummaged with his left hand behind the chair, searching for the wrist-sling he had bought online.
Eventually, the dark of night and cold wind blowing down the mountainside drove Goosh back inside the century-old miner's shack he called home. He sat at the wobbly kitchen table, nursing his last dregs of Daniels. Damn, his wrist hurt, but he had hung three feathered corpses from the eves of his porch. That was satisfying.
More caws sounded from the front yard, back and forth; always yelling, taunting. It was maddening. Goosh exploded out of the chair, sending the table over with a crash, and stomped to the door. Flinging the door open, he hurled the empty whisky bottle at the tree where the murder was roosting. Few birds took flight, or even moved. But the whole lot of them fixed their eyes on Goosh and sounded off, a cacophony of warning and threat. Goosh screwed up his face, fists clenched and screamed back.
Vertigo grabbed him then, and he stumbled forwards a bit, opening his eyes to regain his balance. When he looked up, a figure in black stood before him. No sign of the birds. Goosh opened his mouth to tell the bastard to fuck off, when his brain finally started to process the input from his eyes. No nose, just a wicked black beak. Not a heavy coat, but partially furled wings. And claws. Wicked sharp claws. On giant bird feet. Where hands should be.
A hop. A strangled cry. A wet, tearing sound.

The county coroner filled in the form: "Natural causes" and filed the case folder in the "OUT" box. Grabbing his things, he left the morgue, turning off lights and locking up as her went. A flock of crows roosting in the old oak tree, greeted him with shifting wings and a few sentry calls. He smiled: their watchfulness made him feel safe in the deserted parking lot. Once in the car, on a whim he grabbed a handful of chips from a half empty bag on the passenger seat and flung them out the window. "Thanks, guys," he called as he pulled out of the lot.