Watch the Crow, as he glides from his observing perch on an overhanging limb down to the road. Watch him as he desecrates the body of a recently dead squirrel, pulling little bits of unidentifiable things out and lifting his beak to the sky as if giving thanks he swallows. And one day if he can’t find anything smashed on the pavement he might have to do some real work and go after baby birds. The only bane of his existence, the pack of blackbirds with iridescent wings who think nothing of pecking him in the head as he, minding his own business looks for his supper. And he thinks; just wait blackbirds, wait until I find you dead on the road.