Our backyard crows are a tight-knit tribe and occasionally part of a considerable murder. And we are not members. Okay, Diane gives them seeds and other bird treats, and I suppose they like her for that. In fact, I am sure they do. But me? I do not know. But probably not so much.
Diane
likes the crows because they eat the crane fly larvae in the lawn and raise a ruckus if a hawk or bobcat shows up while she is gardening. She values their warning system because who wants to be surprised by an encounter with a bobcat, or two, or three? Of course, the crows do it to protect each other, and Diane is
merely a beneficiary. But she still appreciates it.
I do love watching the crows swoop into the garden and gracefully flair their wings to land. So captivatingly beautiful. And, I like the way they go about their business, proud birds strutting about with a regal sense of purpose. I do feel some affection for them and have sketched them on several occasions as they are worthy subjects. But, as charming as they may be, I find they do not give a shit about the state of our garden. Specifically, my attempts to top-seed the bare spots in our lawn.
I got
a bit angry the other day when they were tearing up some freshly patched lawn,
bare sports that I had filled in with sod from perimeter trimmings. I thought,
“This will work.” The crows, “Eh, looks like good pickings for undersoil
critters.” And, so they tore out patches of newly laid sod, and either dragged
them away or pecked them into little fragments, all to look for something yummy
in the dirt below.” I spied their shenanigans as I ate breakfast. Outraged at
their callous behavior, I was out the back door like a shot, yelling at them to
stop. But the damage was done. Diane said, “They are just being crows, doing
what comes naturally.” Did that help? No, it did not.
Acknowledging
and coming to terms with my surprise setback (it took a few days), I have come
to realize that any future top-seeding success will not come easily. The crows
are formidable foes because they are big, strong, determined, and smart. I know
I am up against the brightest of the many birds, or any other creatures, that
visit our backyard to feed and socialize. And, they collaborate. When they do
their damage, it is usually a pair of them, relentlessly tag teaming the
defenseless sod.
It
seems that gardening with crows has several steps. One: perform the garden
task, two: watch the crows discover it, three: watch the crows tear it apart,
four: clean up the mess that the crows left, five: perform the garden task
again, this time differently, mindful of the crows. Repeat as necessary. Until
you start screaming and pulling your hair out. Or, accept what is, the natural
order of things, according to the crows.
Somehow, writing this out forces me to confront the higher order of gardening that will
be necessary to find a peaceful co-existence with our feathered friends. So, I
am developing plans. Yes, several, as I know not what will succeed, so I may as
well have a full quiver of approaches. The only metric of success in this
instance will be whether sufficient grass seeds sprout and live to sustain
themselves.
In
the meantime, I have become as patient as a Zen priest, watching
dispassionately as the crows continue their damage day after day, relentlessly
tearing up the soil and scattering the earthly fragments hither and yon. You
see, to act without preparation is pointless. So why get all wound up about it?
Have a glass of wine or a scotch, and chill. My time will come. At least that
is what I tell myself as I thoughtfully develop my ‘crow-proof’ plans.
But, wait a minute. Hold the phone. If I look at myself, I need to ask, why am I so concerned about this piece of dirt and grass? What does it represent? And, if I consider that maybe the crows are not the problem, then what? I must examine whether the problem might reside with me. Could that be? And why? Perhaps it is a need for control, an obsessive need that can only be fulfilled by ordering my little patch of the world.
In a big, bad world that now seems so roiled by chaos, we may feel compelled to reach for anything over
which we can effectively exert control. I think we need that, a sense of
stability, solidity, things we can depend on.
Over
the last few years, I have been sketching in pen and ink, an unforgiving
practice that requires both spontaneity and control to achieve an artful
outcome. It is precise and considered, and inwardly satisfying. Given that,
perhaps my backyard efforts are an extension of that creative drive, a need to bring
some order to what could be an unruly horticultural disaster zone. A need to
create both beauty and a sense of order. Makes sense. I need to control what I
can to mentally survive the colossal chaos that now surrounds and engulfs us
all.
If I add my gardening efforts to my hiking and artwork, it will nicely supplement my core physical fitness and mental health activities. That requires that I approach gardening with a Zen mindfulness, a commitment to both passionate involvement and nonattachment to the outcomes. Well, perhaps only a little attachment because it is sometimes hard to let go of what we want, but might not get. I am coming to understand that gardening is more about influence than control. It is a dance that combines inspiration and effort with uncertain outcomes. It is a voyage into who knows what, likely with a good deal of failure ahead. And, I’ll have to be okay with that.
So,
what about the crows? The truth about the crows is that they deserve my respect
and consideration because they own this place as much as we do. So, I need to
devise a plan, a path that seeks to meet our mutual needs. Such intelligent
creatures must be acknowledged and understood. To both accommodate, outwit, and
deter them and achieve any success, I must enter the mind of the crow, to see
the world through their eyes, to think like a crow. Really? Yes, really. It
certainly seems so.
“Become
the crow,” whispers the sensei.
