I’m in love with black crows. Oil slicked, feathery friends. Squeaking and squawking, fussing and snibbling. Full of warnings and messages never wasted on me. Arriving for shenanigans, socializing or eating, entertainment abounds.
Oh so mysterious and secret, now we are curious. Stealth like flight patterns they enter the scene from all directions. Each claiming their temporary evergreen perch. Trees burst alive with chatter. Argumentative, jolly, shape-shifting visionaries. Calling sharply, commanding attention.
Both thief and giver. Leaving found trinkets behind. Gifts from beyond. Silently placing shiny metal barrettes, paper clips, beads, springs, pins on our path. Crows see us. Recognize us. Inquisitive looks from tiny black-seed eyes, watching our humanness.
Crows playing. Hopping, yapping, springing and swinging. Soaring above. The murderous group, dressed all in black. Heard but not seen in the thick pines. They claim their roost. Once again. I’m in love with crows.
I love seeing and hearing birdz. Birdz are never worried, depressed, in a rush, judgemental, unmotivated, negative Nancys or Douggie downers. 
I believe in the magic of trees. I can be found touching, smelling and cozying up to trees. They’re all so welcoming, fragrant, protective and accepting of love from us. My ancient friends on my land, lovingly offer their sap which I respectfully process into delicious syrup. Bark, of the Shag-bark tree also creates a delectable syrup. Elderberry, Linden, Maples, Oaks, Willow… Oh, my momma Willow. How I honor thee. I would say one of the most disappointing events I witnessed this year involved my 100+ yr old Willows. 
A Fish Named Karen 