The commotion outside started when I was on the phone.
I had the impression of turkeys sounding off and a cacophony of crows.
When my conversation ended, I looked out the windows to determine the cause of the ruckus.
It wasn't hard to find.
The turkeys had fled, and not far off, a hawk was on the ground with a crow pinned under him.
A murder of crows perched in the trees overhead
and swooped down toward the hawk and their downed brother,
trying to distract the aggressor from his victim.
It looked bad for the crow.
At first I saw no signs of life from the form on the bottom of the heap,
but then, suddenly, a struggle ensued.
There was a jumble of flapping wings and feathers with the hawk all the while on top.
From the sound of it, they had been at this for a while.
I know hawks are beautiful, and crows are, well, crows, but in the middle of the fight,
strangely, I found myself rooting for the crow.
There's something about the underdog.
As I watched, caught up in the natural drama in front of me, there was a lull in their exertion,
both of them laying still, like a short stack of pancakes at Cookies' Restaurant.
And then, amazingly, the crow struggled free and flew away.
It may have been my imagination, but I thought the hawk looked a bit chagrinned,
glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.
Then he shook himself, raised his wings, and sailed off over the trees.
It's quite possible, I suppose, that this fight was not about a meal at all, but just a brawl,
the hawk teaching the crow a lesson.
After all, nobody really wants to eat crow.
