A murder of crows at the city golf course, and rediscovering that "city golf course" is a misleading descriptor for acres of public city land, rolling hills and evergreen stands beside a lazy river. It helped that we had it all to ourselves, before cross country skiers and walkers and skaters arrived. The crows have been spurning my back yard for months (or years), and I've missed that low, strange sound of a hundred of them gathered to discuss the weather.
Mark described the groaning sound Clover makes when we arrive at one of her favorite places or pull up in our driveway as sounding like Marge Simpson, and YES.
This peanut sauce on anything.
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