Okha For weeks, I’ve been courting the crows in my backyard.
Nothing formal. I don’t wear a tie or bring flowers.
But I do have a bag of Planter’s Peanuts in the shell—the kind with the monocled peanut on the front. Most afternoons, I bring them out, making an embarrassingly loud kissy sound, like I do for the pups at mealtime.
Yesterday, as I stepped outside, a crow soared overhead. Not a threatening swoop, just… close. Then, as I opened the bag, I spotted him—perched in silhouette atop the pine tree above my house.
I smacked another kiss. He ruffled his feathers but stayed put. I hook-shotted a few peanuts onto the tin roof over the patio and walked back inside, thinking nothing of it.
Today, I found a rock on the welcome mat.
Not a pebble. Not one of the red lava rocks from the yard.
No, this was a rock. Brown, jagged, cruddy, and heavy—like it had been wrestled from a field and lugged, with effort, to the mat.
I was overjoyed. We’d made a breakthrough. And it didn’t involve a carcass. I’ve read that crows sometimes show their appreciation that way.
But for now, peanuts for rocks is a bargain I’ll take any day.
Even Mr. Monocle would have to doff his cap.
