As The Crow Flies

Mama Crow spends a lot of time in my garden, perching on the apex of the greenhouse roof or on the head of my little boy statue.  Sometimes her two offspring come with her, noisy and raucous.  I guess she is teaching them about survival; that this is a place to come for food - a piece of bread to dunk in the bird bath, or a few dropped seeds around the bird table.

She visits several times a day, hoping for more titbits.  It is in her territory now after spending the winter on my lawn carrying away apples and bread; bringing  with her a few companions.  Just her, then two more, then five - word having got round that there were easy pickings.

Looking totally out of place amongst the smaller birds - she is too big for my little patch; but she waits patiently, sometimes flying off to perch on the runner bean arch - but never far away.  It only takes minutes for her to realise I have left breakfast out for her - and there she is - appearing out of nowhere. 

I watch as she scratches her beak with pointed claw; then stretches her wing and leg simultaneously like a ballerina at the barre; shuffles her feathers which settle black and glossy into their proper place; sleek and close fitting. 

I look out for her - and she looks out for me.