Lookin' out my back door

Spring is well-underway here. I've had to cut the grass once; Rachel's garden is really taking off; the lilacs outside of Elaine's room are exploding; the plants that I thought were dead have fleshed out remarkably; the grapevines that I thought that I killed are producing buds; the cherry blossoms have come and gone, with the plums now on their heels. The camelia bush (which is now, more or less, a tree) is just about done with its annual show of beautiful white flowers, and, this year, has been the source of some additonal entertainment: it is hosting a crow's nest.



I was pretty surprised to see a gigantic crow decide to build a nest in this bush. My impression had always been that crows' nests were usually high and inaccessible, likely stemming from the nautical use of the term. This nest hardly provides any kind of lookout. One advantage, from the crow's perspective, is that the top of the bush is fairly open, and a power line runs directly above it. Thus the crow can hang out on the line and keep an eye out on the babies and the general area. I was also surprised at my own willingness to suffer the use of my property for the rearing of these godforsaken devilspawn. My curiosity to see and hear the baby devilspawn apparently outweighed the blackness that I hold in my heart. Or perhaps I'm just getting soft.

I didn't always hate the crows. The faithful reader will recall the moment when I became convinced of their diabolical origins and hateful intent. I had my reasons. Still, I wonder if I might have been mistaken--if these creatures may have the capacity to stir something good in this heart of mine.

I found my answer last week. I was home sick (and still am) and I heard the young crows calling for food. A large black streak threaded into the bush to increased clamor, and I found myself excitedly calling to Jill and Elaine to listen. Mama Crow flew out again, and soon returned with more food. I started thinking about getting to see the fledglings. Man encounters hate and embraces it, then his world changes and he releases it again. It's an old story. But it's never the ending.

There is a neighborhood cat who patrols the alley behind my house. I glanced out the window this weekend to see it seated below the bush, looking intently up, tail swishing. The faithful reader will recall that I am not a big fan of cats, mewling, greedy little bird-murdering panhandlers that they are. I was about to head for the back door to send it running when I realized that there were three large crows on the power line, daring the cat to make a move. By the time I got downstairs to the back door, the cat was gone and the crows were in the air, down the alley, harrying the feline back to its yard.

Then, yesterday, I looked out and saw the cat in the tree with no crows in sight. I hurried outside and lobbed a rock in its direction. Part of me would probably get some satisfaction out of beaning the beast broadside with a good thump, but the larger part of me would regret it. So it was just a near miss that bounced once and sent the cat scurrying. I scared it off again from the window last evening.

So, this is what I've come to be -- a protector of crows. It remains to be seen whether my heart can change enough to feel affection for cats again, but this tale suggests that anything is possible if you just give love a chance.


(from glitterpissing.blogspot.com)