the crows
Early in my time in Beijing I visited the Yuanmingyuan (圆明园/Yuánmíngyuán, the Old Summer Palace). I bought the entry ticket, walked through the gate on the southern side of the park, and followed the paths up to the far end, then turned right to see the ruins of the European-style palaces, destroyed by the Anglo-French Allied Forces in 1860.
There was nothing wrong with that particular visit - piles of smashed up marble with models and placards showing and explaining what they had been part of in 1859, and precisely who did all the smashing.
But I went back in the winter, and that was a vastly better experience. When I got to the end of the path, where I could've turned right to follow the crowds in to see the ruins, I turned left and walked around a lake. Completely alone.
The lake was frozen solid, the ice a mixture of blacks, greys, and whites, depending on the patterns of cracks and the water below. The grass on the banks was the faded greyish tan that dominates northern China in the winter. The lake was lined with trees, some deciduous, branches bare for mid-winter, some pine trees, looking faded, battered, and a touch grey with the brutality of a Beijing winter.
In the trees were crows, thousands upon thousands of crows, in all the trees, all the available branches, all the way around the lake. Some of the crows would occasionally get up and fly around a little, then re-settle on the tree branches. Mostly the crows were content to just sit and watch the world pass by. Or watch me pass by, at least.
It was silent.
It was beautiful.