In our present domain, we have brilliant sunrises as well as an abundance of birds that flock to pluck crumbs and insects alike from our backyard.
Any hint of orts consisting of carbohydrates are instantly banished to the lawn, where sundry species deign to descend to garner their respective share of hard-earned energy.
In the morning, before coffee begins to brew, the ancient and irritating shades are raised, revealing a thin sliver of sun behind the phalanx of barren limbs that belong to quavering trees huddled against bone chilling winds.
Peering into the backyard, one never fails to espy a triad of crows, their wary gaze flitting here and there as they walk uncertainly to an iced mound of discarded offerings. Sometimes a whole slice of burnt toast can be had, or perhaps a disinterested and now frigid nibbled pop tart. And on one occasion, an entire pizza pie was relegated to the yard, only to be whisked away by a rather healthy and well-muscled crow.
It remains, though, those three crows who most frequent our yard. If not seen, their distant caws can be heard. If no scraps are to be had, I immediately set out to to determine what can be tossed. The collection of unwanted items soon tucked under wing, I venture out the side door into the brumal morning. Frost greets every footfall, but soon I find our feeding ground, a slight depression that is momentarily bathed in wan winter sun, and there do I sprinkle leftovers upon the tundra. Back inside I wait, with coffee in hand.
It does not take long.
Soon, the three crows appear, making their hesitant gait towards sustenance and, with prolific beaks, do they cram as much food as possible.
This morning dance is a wonder to watch, and as I stand behind the blind of glass, with mug of joe in hand, I marvel at these creatures who brave the arctic nocturne, who return every morning to our little patch of ground for a chance nibble of petrified food.
Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.