Crow.

“A crow tugs at a dusty brown sprig of branch still attached to Sycamore, probably collecting fodder for the nest she is building. Thanks to drought, several of Sycamore’s dead twigs have already fallen to the ground. Crow chose none of those. No, she is stealing straight off the tree! Crow adds insult to Sycamore’s drought-inflicted injuries by snapping a still-attached twig, her thievery in plain view. What gall. She turns to eye me with a ferocity that causes the heat of my outrage to drain, along with the color from my face.”

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