Lola and I were sitting on the front porch. It was shortly after 8 o'clock and it was already hot outside. She had just gotten up while I was sipping my third, and final, coffee of the day. We were quietly enjoying the morning when all of a sudden an explosion of sound came out of the yard. Something was clearly amiss.
Upon closer inspection the ruckus was taking place in the large pine tree in the middle of the yard. A dozen or so robins, mostly females, were frantically fluttering and screeching. The focus of their attention was a large black bird up high in the tree. A crow I assume, trying to rob one of their nests.
He, or she, succeeded despite the mama robins' attacks and made off with a baby bird in its beak while Lola and I helplessly looked on. Now I know why they call it a murder of crows. Bloody beasts. As if it's not enough that they empty my garbage bags every Monday morning, forcing me to collect my trash twice. Now they empty the robins' nests as well.