truce with the crows
by brenda kay ledford

Early morning spiderwebs drape the blades of grass like a silver shawl. The rising sun sets the horizon afire and poplars shed gold across my lawn. A chilled breeze carries the scent of woodsmoke spiraling from chimneys like India ink. A lone cloud brushes the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Nature reigns here in Western North Carolina and has spread an offering of beauty at my back door. Former enemies of people have formed a truce since their enemy—Lady died. The golden retriever’s bristles stood on edge when the crows plucked grains of corn from Mama’s vegetable garden. So each spring Mama launched a war with the feathered creatures.

Mama contrived all kinds of devices to scare the crows. She put aluminum pans on stakes, designed a scarecrow from Dad’s work shirts and even put mini-sized windmills in the garden. Nothing worked!

When Lady died, all attempts for law and order failed in the cornfield. Mama threw up her hands. “let the crows have the garden,” she moaned. But an unlikely thing happened. Our foes became allies. Contempt turned into anticipation of the next arrival of the crow family.

Since Lady passed away, we throw scraps of food under the apple tree. The birds look forward to the handouts. They perch in the dogwood tree until the coast is clear, then swoop down filling their beaks. One crow (apparently the boss), caw, caw, caws 15 times until the rest of his friends join him for the feast. The crows arrive three times each day just in time to dine. It’s like they have been programmed.

When Mama tossed out a stale coconut cake, the birds soon pecked it to pieces. They smeared icing on their faces like kids. I don’t know how they got off the ground after glutting, but they flap, flap, flapped their blue-black wings until they soared on an air current over Mama’s garden oblivious of her vegetables.

So nature has come to rest at my back door. This evening I rock on the front porch taking in the sights and sounds of nature. In the distance a rain crow caws.

The hills reflect like a copper shield as day wanes. Fainting sun beams on the ridge turning crimson. Silence. A wedge of geese honks over mountains turned milky.

Encore. The sun sprays silver on peaks touching the denim canvas. A purple veil smothers Davy Mountain. The tempo increases and fan-shaped leaves ride the wind. Silence. Darkness creeps into the cove. Crickets rise in chorus.

I watch peach-colored threads unfurling across the sky, royal ribbons trim the edge. Then tangerine spreads like a tapestry above me until I’m engulfed in golden light.

 

brenda kay ledford