LOCKET'S MEADOW

A young crow named Wilson was on the move early one August day. He’d gotten into a scuffle with a red-tailed hawk over who would get to sit on a certain fence post and it had turned ugly, so he’d decided to move along and find a new place to hang out for a while.

Wilson soared over a large pond surrounded by fields of daisies, black-eyed Susans and brown and white cows. He thought about stopping for a rest, but then he spotted a tall pine tree a short distance away with a small flock of crows crowded onto its lower branches. Beneath the tree sat a little white farm house, several barns and pastures dotted with horses. It looked friendly enough, and he decided to drop in and introduce himself to the neighborhood.

He flew in and landed between two other crows, neither of whom took much notice of him.

“Dudes! Wassup?” Wilson asked.

“Waiting,” one of them replied, not moving his eyes from the back door of the little white farm house below the towering pine.

Wilson followed the crow’s gaze and watched the back door for a few seconds.

“What are we waiting for?” he asked.

“The house is going to start spewing food soon,” the other crow replied.

“Spewing?” Wilson looked at the door with alarm. “What do you mean, spewing?”

The crow on the other side of him, an older, motherly sort, said, “It means to come forth in a flood or gush, dear, or to cast forth in great quantity.”

Wilson looked from one crow to another, then back at the door.

“You gotta be kidding,” he said. “I have never seen a house spew food before. Dudes, houses don’t spew food!”

“This one does,” the first crow said.

“How do you know?” Wilson asked.

“It spews every single morning at the same time,” the crow replied. “They say it has for years. We call it Old Faithful.”

“Wow!” Wilson said, and whistled under his breath. “Hey, I’m Wilson. I’m new to the neighborhood.”

“I’m Carla,” said the motherly one.

“Carl,” said the other, not taking his eyes off the door.

“Carl, be polite,” Carla said. “Didn’t I tell you to look someone in the eye when you first meet them? He’s my son,” she said to Wilson, “bit of a glutton, but generally good natured. He just hatched this spring.”

“Hey, me too!” Wilson replied, but soon realized there would be no talking with Carl until after he ate his breakfast.

 Someone moved behind a large window and the flock began to murmur. Wilson noticed a least a dozen squirrels lurking in the branches around him, and several others up the hill waiting in the woods.

“Get ready,” Carla said, watching the door.

The murmuring grew louder, and Wilson began to feel nervous. He’d never heard of such an event and he didn’t know if it was dangerous. He wondered if he’d have to dodge flying chunks of stale bread crust.

“Get set,” Carla said, and Wilson heard the back door creak as it swung inwards.

“Go!” Carla cried out and the flock descended as handful after handful of peanuts began to spew from the back door of the little white house.