When a tree falls in a wood, one crow is pretty upset about it.

For the past two years, whenever I worked in the community garden, I would find myself under the watchful eye (and very loud commentary) of a particular corvid.  Upon my entering the garden, the large crow would swoop from far above to land and balance on the fencing meant to keep our black-tailed deer at bay.  From there the ebony fellow would crackle and caw to announce that he had me in his sights.  This was followed by clacks and clicks as he short-hopped along the fence to the 60-gallon rain barrel at the far end of the garden. There, he would take a final leap to the puddle atop the barrel where he took long stretched-necked sips of the water.  Then with a robust swoosh, the crow would be aloft again. With a pass over the garden, he would settle on the lowest drooping branch of one of a trio of Monterey pines nearby.   Here he took his post, and here he had a prime view for heckling me.  He wanted me to be aware of the facts: HIS garden, HIS tree.

On Monday, my beloved and I went to harvest broccoli for dinner.  As we approached, I heard the familiar rustle of wings overhead.  But as we came around the corner, instead of seeing that familiar sentry on the fence, he was in the tree.  And the tree was on the fence.  Our days of rain and wind had uprooted the pine which pulled down 20 feet of fence and crushed several raised beds.  But this did not deter the crow.  He strutted along the branch loudly reminding us that, despite this new predicament, the tree and garden are his.