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I fed the crows a couple days ago.

There were three of them, bold and black as coffee, and I’d left a handful of peanuts on the back patio roof. Never thanked me, of course. That’s not what wild things do. But they left the peanut shells in a little crescent near the rose bush, like a calling card—or a question mark.

This morning, I took to the tub. It’s a ritual now: the heat, the quiet, the iPad balanced on a towel.

And then came the chittering. Sharp, urgent. Squirrel talk. It’s not an altogether pleasant sound, especially first thing.

I heard it again, turned. And there he was. On the tin roof’s edge, ten feet from my back. Chittering not at the fence, not at the trees, but at me. He looked me in the eye.

There’s an edge to that kind of gaze, when a wild thing doesn’t look through you but at you. I thought of rabies, of course. This is L.A., and I’ve seen raccoons with with junkie eyes.

I tapped my Gatorade bottle on the tub, a percussion warning. The squirrel turned and vanished as if on cue.

But I sit with that moment. Had he seen me feed the crows? Had he snuck a peanut and come back to barter, or beg, or accuse? Should I come full-handed?

There’s no knowing. Only that the wild has its own memory, and maybe its own economy. I hope I can contribute to it.

I wonder if that works in both directions—if the squirrel’s eyes were his version of a poem, reminding me that no gesture in the natural world goes entirely unseen.

I have an amazing backyard. It’s not landscaped, exactly.

It’s lived in. Alive. Birds flit through the air like punctuation marks. A hooting owl resides in the next door pine tree. Once, a chicken— a chicken—hopped over the back fence like a neighbor who’d had enough of her own yard.

Another time, I heard coyotes. Not in the distance. Close enough to lock in the dogs. It’s that kind of place. Not wild, not tame—somewhere in between.

But what’s taken hold of me lately are the crows.

They’ve lived here longer than I have. I know that much. You can hear them early in the morning, like they’re opening up shop.

They don’t sing like songbirds. They debate. They discuss. And then they squawk orders. I’ve always liked their rough-edged cleverness, their unapologetic presence.

And I’ve read the studies—how crows can recognize human faces, how they remember kindness, and cruelty. That stuck with me. It meant you could have a relationship with them, if you respected their intelligence. If you listened.

So I bought peanuts. Ones in the shell, the kind they have to work at. I wanted to give them something worth their time.

At first, I wasn’t sure they noticed. I’d leave them out in the morning, under the patio overhang, and go back inside. Nothing.

Then one day, I heard it—the clatter of claws on the tin roof above the patio. Metal on metal. Curious tapping. Then silence. Then the crunch of a shell being cracked.

The crows had come.

I didn’t see them at first. But I could hear them. Not just eating, but talking about it. One would land, grab a peanut, lift off. Another would follow.

They knew. They knew the source. And they’d taken the first step. Or maybe I had.

Today, when I stepped outside, one lingered on the roof. Watched me. Head tilted slightly. Measuring. Not alarmed. Just watching. Maybe wondering what I’d leave next.

It’s early, I know. But it feels like the beginning of something. Not a training. Not a taming. Something better. A friendship, if they’ll have it.

And if they will, I’ll be here. Same time, same place.

With peanuts.