An uproar of crows

Late yesterday afternoon a murder of crows (that's the proper group name - check here for a whole list of wonderful collective names for birds. I like "an ostentation of peacocks," too) took over the maple tree outside my window. What a cacophony - and what hopping and flapping to find just the right branch.

An uproar of crows in that tree usually means four or five birds screaming (from a safe distance) at a perching eagle or red-tailed hawk. From time to time one or two birds will fly close to the interloper. When the big bird is ready, it leaves, with a lazy flap of its wings, and the crows settle down.

This gathering turned out to be a rest stop on the way to somewhere else, as at a certain moment, the whole group rose into the air and flew off across the lake.

I like crows. Occasionally, one lands on the deck, strutting along the rail as if it owns the place. There are nests in the neighborhood, too, and in late summer, when the young are emerging, parent birds take turns dive-bombing pedestrians.

No one believes me when I tell them this, but baby crows have blue eyes and striped legs. I was able to get close to one that had either fallen from the nest or tried to fly too soon, and I know what I saw. I tried to get close enough to the chick to lift it into the tree, but it flapped and squawked and dared me to come close enough to peck.