The vibrant blue sky of morning turns to a limp gray, and a strange light like that of a solar eclipse comes over everything: a dust storm, haboob, tormenta de polvo.  The Galiuros fade into ghosts, their peaks into wraiths there and not there.  Ravens knew that the aerial surf was up and where they’d catch righteous waves, and 50 of them come to roll in the wind and clamor out their fun.  Were they still-photographed, the dozens in the flock would look like a Liszt musical score, if filmed as a motion picture would look like a symphony playing a wild rhapsody, with how the birds move in great wheels, always some to be seen rising, always others falling, others weaving together the whole.