There is a good reason a gang of crows is called a murder. And it’s not because of the sinister blackness, or sepulchral caw. They’re blood thirsty, or should I say yolk thirsty.
The towhee nest I inadvertently (see last post) exposed, and clumsily and inefficiently tried to cover, was raided. Not one egg is left. I found a few bloody egg shells in the garden. I guess that makes me an accomplice to murder, but that’s nothing new. I had a pork sandwich for dinner yesterday, my tax dollars support the war in Iraq. Even today I cut a slug in half, a very intimate murder. I guess in the big picture a few songbird eggs are minor compared to what we’re doing.