The Crow, The Doe, The Dog, and The Lady Bird Beetle

And that old hoop house magic is back.

All morning my eyes wander from the computer screen to the window next to my desk. I watch the crows command their territory, the field that happens to be our front yard. Incognito sentries, they pretend to be tourists, grazing idly on the manure spread over the future garden until a hawk mistakenly and unwisely enters their air space. Suddenly the crows combust, rising from the ground in a raucous whirling cloud of commotion, mobbing the hawk until he comes to rest at the very tip of the tallest pine. Who knows how many mice or pet chickens he can see from there. The crows – a murder? a flock? a family? – come back to rest in the low branches of the scrub oaks, pausing to take a head count to make sure everyone is present and accounted for.

It is noon, and Farmer has announced with an urgent whine that he would like to be accompanied to the privy. Not just let out, but actually taken for what qualifies as a walk for him these days. I am happy to oblige; it’s a valid excuse to give into the urge to be outside, an incessant tug that returned in uncanny alignment with the switch to Daylight Saving Time. Sure, we’re outside most days in the winter, taking our late afternoon walks; but the penetrating wind and dull pewter skies do not encourage lingering.

Now, here, today, I look up at the bluest of skies and I wonder how to swim in that sea, how to float in that pool.