The Gang - or is it a pack?

He wears head-to-toe shiny black. Like a fearsome gunman he struts boldly down the rocky embankment. He stops at the water's edge, his piercing eyes scanning the broken terrain, watchful for any possible threat. Satisfied that he is alone, or at least in the company of lessers, he dips his head and catches a few sips. In a few moments, his companions rustle their way down to the water, spreading themselves in a defensive pattern that allows them to monitor all approaches. These newcomers are smaller than their leader, and their garb more muted, in dull shades of brown.

Something in their coordinated movements is uncomfortably predatory, almost saurian. The cold, golden gaze of the watchers protects the more vulnerable drinkers and bathers. But they take turns, each taking full advantage of the water, as well as spelling the sentries. A sharp, brief cry from one sentinel jerks every head at once to stare suspiciously in the direction of possible danger. Mouths opened threateningly, and bodies tensed menacingly, they wait for any further sound or movement. Satisfied there is no threat, the group resumes their activity.

With their cowboy swagger they could be a gang of outlaws fleeing from the tight end of a rope, and stopping at a wilderness watering hole to recharge.

With their unblinking yellow eyes and synchronized, hunter-like movements, they could be a pack of velociraptors visiting a Jurassic Park lake.

Or they could just be a little flock of grackles taking advantage of my backyard pond for their morning refreshment.