When Cal leaves the house, the crows have grabbed something. Six of them are gathered in the backyard, among the tall, wet grass and the yellow budding wildflowers, pecking and hopping. Whatever it is, it’s something small that is still moving. Cal puts down the garbage bag with the wallpaper. He thinks about bringing his hunting knife to relieve the creature of its agony, but the crows have lived here much longer than he has. It would be rude on his part to invade their lives and start meddling in their habits. So instead, he sits on the moss-covered step next to the bag. He likes the crows. He read somewhere that they are incredibly smart; they can recognize you and even bring you gifts. For the past three months, he has been trying to win them over by leaving scraps on the large log at the end of the garden. They watch him from the ivy-covered oak tree, where their colony is, struggling to cross the grass back and forth, and as soon as he is at a safe distance, they dive in to quarrel and comment, cawing over the scraps. Nevertheless, they continue to look at him sideways, and if he tries to approach, they fly away, return to their oak to mock him and throw twigs at his head.
Yesterday afternoon, while he was in the living room peeling off the moldy wallpaper, a sleek medium-sized crow sat on the sill of the open window, shouted something obviously offensive, and then flew away laughing. The creature in the yard struggles fiercely, making the long grass move. A large crow jumps closer, delivers a sharp, fierce stab with its beak, and the creature remains motionless. A rabbit, probably. Cal saw them early in the morning outside, pecking and running wildly in the frost. Their holes are somewhere in the back, over in the spread-out grove with the hazelnut and dogwood trees. As soon as he receives his gun license, he plans to see if he remembers what his grandfather taught him about skinning, and if his donkey-like patience with the internet will help him find a recipe for rabbit stew.