A few days ago, they tend to run together during this time of self isolation, I was plowing a field to prepare for planting peas.
During the winter, rye and wheat had served as cover crops, and the remnants left behind included a lot of straw.
Let me say upfront that I like crows. A group of them — a murder is a more precise term — hangs out around the field, and watching their antics and listening to their constant chatter is entertaining.
Grasshoppers, on the other hand, are not my friends. They have a nasty habit of dining on what I plant before I get a chance to.
On this day as I turned the tractor, a lone crow swooped down in front of me just as a grasshopper rose from the rubble of straw.
The battle was joined.
The maneuverability of crows in the air is admirable as I’ve often witnessed when mockingbirds, an irritable lot, chase them across the sky because of some slight.
I didn’t know, however, that grasshoppers could match them for aerial twists and turns — almost.
Despite my feelings for grasshoppers, for some reason I found myself rooting for the smaller foe as my tractor idled and the struggle continued.
But after one particularly artful quick dive, the prize belonged to the crow.
That’s life — and death — on the farm.
There’s probably a deep meaning to this brief drama I witnessed. I just don’t know what it is.
Besides I had plowing to finish.