Two for the Crows

I fancy myself, at the very least, a basic composter.  I can look out of my bedroom window and see three black bins through which my organic trash rotates.  I know how to use my pitch fork to turn it over.  In the spring I empty the barrels, sifting out the turkey carcases and the avocado seeds and spreading the precious earth into my flower gardens. I am jealous of the organic treasure there.  I have been known to battle the racoons who like to dig under the bottom rim, pulling out everything indiscrimately, rejecting the onions and then taking off with the best of what they can find.  The bears seem to like the BBQ over at Glen’s better than my compost barrels – perhaps the nice fresh smell of beef, so they don’t bother me.   

But the past month the crows have been getting out of hand.  It appears that even though I twist the top of the barrel to tighten it, they have discovered a way to dance on the lid until it loosens enough for them to have their feast.  I leave two feet of snow on top of two of the barrels, so there is only one treasure for them to get at.  But I got up yesterday morning to look outside and see that the crows have beaten me again – the heavy stone was knocked off of the top of the barrel, the lid was off, and worse a couple of gallons of compost had been fished out and were spread on the ground.  The pure white snow cover makes it look worse. Every shred of carrot peeling and set of radish tops lays there colourfully.  The crows have done this to me twice.  It is two for the crows, none for Arta.  I am catching the midnight bus back to Calgary this evening.  I withdraw from the battle, licking my psychological wounds, leaving them to peck at their bounty.  Sucks to be whipped by murder of crows.

Arta