What Is The Origin Of Murder Crows In Folklore?

On cold autumn evenings I like to watch crows gather on the telephone wires and wonder how a whole legion of superstition grew around such ordinary birds. The phrase 'a murder of crows' has a surprisingly human origin: it comes from medieval English hunting nomenclature, the kind of fanciful collective nouns compiled in 'The Book of Saint Albans' around the late 15th century. Those lists—full of terms like a 'sounder' of swine or a 'murder' of crows—mixed observation with poetic imagination, and the grim label stuck because crows were already linked to death and battle in many folk stories.

Crows scavenged on battlefields and graveyards, so their presence after violence was literal and unsettling. That natural behavior merged with myth. Across Celtic regions the battlefield goddess often appears as a carrion bird and the Morrigan is associated with crows; Norse stories give Odin two raven companions, and even if they're technically ravens, people blurred the lines between corvids. Indigenous tales from the Pacific Northwest and creation myths from other cultures treat corvids as tricksters, messengers, or omens. Those layers of myth, plus their glossy black plumage and sudden, noisy gatherings, created a perfect storm for ominous symbolism.

I also like to point out that modern fascination fuels the fear: poets and storytellers like Edgar Allan Poe and comic-book imagery have romanticized the idea of crows as harbingers of doom, reinforcing the medieval tag. But watching them up close—smart, social, sometimes playful—reminds me the word 'murder' is more human projection than crowly intent. They still give me the shivers on foggy nights, though, in the best spooky way.

I got hooked on birds as a kid and dove into why everyone seemed to whisper about crows. From that vantage point, the term 'murder' is half language game and half superstition. People in medieval England loved clever, sometimes jokey names for animal groups; 'The Book of Saint Albans' is where many of those fanciful collective nouns were recorded, and 'a murder of crows' was one that captured imaginations. But I don't think the book invented the fear—crows were already associated with death because they show up where there's blood or carrion.

Watching them in the suburbs, you see the natural reasons they earned a dark reputation: they mob predators to protect their nests, they scavenge after human conflicts, and they gather in dense, noisy flocks that look ominous at dusk. That behavior mixed with mythic stories—like the Celtic crow-goddess or Norse raven-messengers—and later storytelling cemented the image. Pop culture then ran with it: movies, comics, and songs point at crows when they want mood and menace, which only makes us expect dread when we see a group of black birds. For me, they're more fascinating than frightening—clever street-cleaners with dramatic PR—but I won't deny they make a great spooky soundtrack for rainy evenings.

I tend to think of 'murder' as a theatrical human label slapped onto a very smart, social bird. Linguistically, collective nouns in English were often playful or descriptive, and 'a murder of crows' fit a medieval taste for dramatic phrasing; 'The Book of Saint Albans' preserved many of those names. Culturally, crows lived at the crossroads of life and death—feeding on carcasses, appearing on battlefields, and nesting near human settlements—so they became natural symbols for omens and the supernatural in many traditions.

Mythic figures like the Celtic war goddess who transforms into a crow, or the Norse association with raven-like messengers, gave the birds a mythic aura. Add in human psychological tendencies to project meaning onto striking animals—black feathers, sharp eyes, noisy gatherings—and you have a durable superstition. I always find it funny that a single poetic label has outlived the more mundane truth: crows are clever scavengers and social strategists, not little murderers. Still, when they wheel over a cornfield at dusk, I get a little thrill of that old storytelling energy.