The street was in an uproar. A mob surrounded the tree. Foul-mouthed sparrows, get-off-my-lawn robins and cardinals, starlings from as far away as the next blocks over, grackles, even a few rock doves: for the two offenders were clearly visible in the not fully foliated oak. I joined the mob and looked up.
One crow shifted uneasily on its branch. The surrounding mob might be evaded, deterred, out run, but humans are dangerously unpredictable. This was getting to be more than the crow had figured: “I was only along for the ride.”
A few branches below, the second crow regarded me impassively, a dead hatchling held firmly beneath one claw. The crow shrugged. “Breakfast,” it said, and dug in.