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.