In the sky is two crows dive bombing a hawk.

The hawk climbs, fruitlessly, to overtake the two crows in elevation. Its innate interest in conserving energy, in using the thermals, works against them: their rate of ascent is too slow to overtake the crows. They who are so willing to consistently flap their wings, making it hard for the hawk as it is constantly harassed as it flies circles in the sky.

I make bets with a friend, a fellow gardener. I relate to the hawk because the crows look like bullies. I’m putting money on the hawk. On paper they have the advantage, more weapons: sharper claws and beak.

The terms of the bet is whatever species escapes the other first is considered the loser of the interaction. I picture the hawk spinning midair to slice them one by one, even a nick would be enough to send them packing back to a dumpster to scavenge for more discarded french fries.

I’m sure of this. I boast. No way the avian epitome of nature-tooth-and-claw would be outdone by the second-class cousin of Poe’s raven. They’ll be sliced. Diced. I put my money down. I make plans on how to spend it. Maybe a new shovel, or hori hori. Extra mulch for the hoogle.

Gambling on our Ecosystem 2

My friend says if they win they’ll buy in-game currency for their favorite videogame. They say they’ll buy in an instant something that takes weeks, or months even, to earn otherwise. While we watch the avian dogfight, I’m heartened by this news.

The gardening gods will surely favor me in the bet since my motivations are more pure; my interest more aligned with the needs of the land. I’m already picturing the color of the shovel handle, realizing it’d be more expensive than expected, and ask if we can up the ante.

Why not raise the stakes? The hawk clearly is simply biding its time while it coasts on thermals, seemingly unwilling to flap its wings while the crows badger it from above. I ask to double the bet, picturing the shovel *AND* hori hori I can now buy. Why not go all in they counter? A full month’s paycheck on the winner. Ahha, my friend thinks they themselves are clever but with this I’ve got them. An extra month means I can not just buy tools but more mulch for the yard, too.

I need luck to win and I’m feeling lucky. The hawk, with it’s propensity for violence, will triumph over these bullies. It circles higher. The crows follow, flapping. Not just staying above but dive bombing the hawk from above, then flapping madly, in conjunction with using the same thermals, to gain extra elevation before again attacking downwards.

The hawk looks harried. I wonder if they have any friends to help out but aside from the trio of birds the sky is an empty blue, an expanse that leaves no room for shelter.

The hawk dives, seeking cover now in a ponderosa pine. Nice. Now they’ll pop out, slash the crows with their claws but the crows land, too. Begin cawing. Soon there are four crows instead of two and the hawks so deep in the treetop I can’t seem them.

My friend begins making noise that the bet’s over and I better make plans to pay up but no bird has flown away yet. The whole pursuit happening as such an interlaced dance, it is still too close to call. Almost like the hawks and crows have done this before, like they know what the other will do next and work to have the correct counter in play. Almost like my friend has seen this play out, too.

The crows make overtures towards the interior of the big pine, then pop out in a huff of feathers, clearly, the hawks’ claws are getting the better of them. I side eye my friend, looking for sweat but they are enjoying themselves. They sip electrolytes and eat handfuls of seeds, careful to not let any fall on the land and attract bears.

It’s this self-awareness I see, that I admire, that makes me realize they wouldn’t have made the bet if they thought they might lose. I’m the same way but what if I’m wrong?

Can’t be. Crow pops out, starts to fly away, then pivots and dives back into the thicket of conifer needles. We lose sight, here caws. Now another crow arrives from the other side of the mesa. Magpies are beginning to flow, arriving out of curiosity and then staying for entertainment.

My friend quips that the crows seem to be flying in the wrong direction. A reversal in the sky matches a return of their good mood: they ask if maybe I can pay with bitcoin. I hear more caws and squawks, clearly the hawk is holding its own. Clearly.

Gambling on our Ecosystem 3

I make the bet unaware that here we have nature divergent, evolution making sticky choices in a vacuum. The crows have a more diverse range of dietary options, more efficient calorie-intake-to-work ratios.

I see the crows as bullies but the hawk is not blameless. Hawks will raid crow nests if given the chance, and it’s likely whichever side started it, today, both would see the initiating moves as pre-emptive self defense. Even if in the hawks case they’re defending against starvation and not the threat of actual violence.

And yet, the deck is staked, the crows too persistent. This is the old mon bot writ large against a foundation of hunger and happiness: nerd vs. jock, except no one is teasing, and the bigger brained bird has all the advantage.

Finally the hawk flies away at an unexpected moment. The crows pursue but have lost their edge. The hawk escapes. Escapes to hunt another day. Everyone wins, except me.

How could this happen?

While my friend crows about their win, pun intended, I’m trying to understand what happened, standing beneath a tree featuring our next gardening task . It is a linden tree with a widowmaker halfway up. The broken branch is above a gardening zone, a hoogle, and I’m worried that it might be dangerous. I’m almost annoyed enough with the tree, now, that I want to cut it down. This is the fifth broken branch like this in the last two years.

Cut it down and use the full sun to grow vegetables. Lose a shady spot to sit, shade where the grasses grow green even in drought. Maybe do that and grow crops. Grow corn for the crows, even though they don’t really need it.

I want to move on but my friend’s asking for money now. How could this happen? I ask again.

It turns out, it’s fate.

Hawks are limited in their food source making calorie conservation a biological imperative. The hawk’s prey, the prey that they can find, the pretty whose habitat shrinks with the ongoing crawl of human development, takes work. Its prey: rabbits, mice, snakes, and songbirds, are becoming frequently more scarce or better adapted at hiding in the human crafted spaces, making it harder for the hawk to hunt.

They need to save energy because there’s gaps between meals. They can’t adapt fast enough to the changing environment. The slow creep of urban sprawl. The golf course dumpster and the rabbits hiding successfully at its base.

These same trends only expand the crows trash-hunting options, as they adapt to the ever-hanging buffet of biomass that is the urban ecosystem surrounding our garden. More easy calories means more energy to flap their wings, giving them the advantage in the aerial battle with the hawk.

I planned to use my winnings to buy a new shovel. Looks like I’ll have to sell my old one to make ends meet instead.

I saw six crows overhead on a warm winter’s day. Flying not so much in formation but instead in a proximity of convenience. Was this some communal group? A family? Or even six adults, three couples? They were high enough above I could not see detail, but the setting sun cast rose gold light, turning their black bodies brown and gold in the fading day.

What did they think of this unusually balmy December day? This long string of especially warm days? Is there a difference between a dry, dormant winter in the desert and a cold bitter winter in terms of food supply?

Is there more opportunity?

Or, while we’re speculating, does the opportunity come in waves? Extra food now means less food later. Insects emerge early looking for winter ephemerals (i.e. dandelions), but all they find is a hungry maw willing to sit with murder.

So the crow gets extra food, but, whatever this generic pollinator might be (whether beetle, or grub, or butterfly and moth), it’s still getting eaten early, disrupting its chance to propagate its species. Instead of one beetle, given a chance to reproduce, do we have two beetles, or fifteen? Or fifty?

The problem is we’re speaking in generalizations, speaking as if one crow and one beetle represent all birds and all insects. It also needs to be cleared up that all this speculation is not entirely in line with observations made in the garden.

If we are speaking of just one beetle, we can speak of the pine beetle, which threatens the native ponderosa pine.

The danger of all this speculation is that we might start connecting dots when there really is none. Do crows eat pine beetles? In a way that might significantly help control the infestations affecting our forests?

Yes. No. Maybe? Like I said the field observations don’t support this propped up, amateur hypothesizing but maybe that just means I need to spend more time in the field.

Crows eat insects. Pine beetles are insects. Crows eat pine beetles? Well, sure I’d guess they might if they can get to them but when you think of their respective ecological niches how much do they overlap?

Maybe a lot but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen crows perched vertically on a trunk like a woodpecker, so maybe they have a different way to get the pine beetle under the bark.

So maybe they would if they could with the beetles. I am going to do some research and will post more about this when I have answers. But for now, back to speculating.

It’s this record warm weather that is creating so much disruption. So much opportunity for the opportunistic.

Do crows see it as such? See it as an opportunity with no larger frame of reference? An opportunistic species taking advantage of unseasonably warm weather, making hay while the sun shines.

Mild and nice, while west in California they’re dealing with atmospheric rivers. It’s like the planet wants to  park long-term the dry 65 degree weather in one spot and the torrential deluges in another. Yes, that’s plural of deluge. The water just keeps on coming even after the ground is saturated. That’s when things would get really dangerous except here in Colorado the garden it’s dry.

We could use some of that rain, and California could use a little less.