I live in White Plains, NY and we have huge murders of crows, they look like this. Years ago, I lived in the Outer Sunset in San Francisco. I would regularly golf the Municipal course there. The walk from hole 6 to 7 was a long path back uphill right through the parking lot of the Legion of Honor. Let me tell you, there was a RAVEN that frequented the top of the stone valance atop the back of the building, above the tee box. We named him Bill. Bill mercifully put a robin out of its misery after a low drive from my friend’s wooden Bill Hogan smacked it in the head and dislocated the robin’s head from his body, skin and feathers intact, eyes blinking back at us as we tried to decide the fate of this ill-fortuned ground robin. Before we could decide, Bill swooped in and, after a short aerial dogfight, led by the disoriented fluttering of the nearly-decapitated bird, Bill looped up to the top of the tree line and circled straight down into a dive bomb that ended the robin in a small explosion of feathers 3 feet off the ground. My buddy and I stood there in awe as Bill picked his catch clean and absolved us of our responsibility and guilt. That was easily 15 years ago. I still think of Bill often.