Any gathering of friends in the country will, if properly encouraged, eventually disgorge its quota of crow tales. These are normally reserved till last, when dark skies press upon a brightly lit home and the warm, smoky interior provides a nervous contrast with the cavernous silence outside. In that mystical moment when the mind has been opened to supernatural symbols and insight has been whetted by the introduction of port, stories rise to the surface like drowned corpses.

How I smiled when first I was exposed to stories of crow cunning. In a land where creatures are barely given credit for sentience, the crow is invested with mythical capability. Of course, it isn't difficult to understand the fear and loathing attributed to this intelligent bird. Any animal which can heartlessly peck out the eyes of a lamb struggling to emerge from its mother's womb, deserves a fearful shudder. After all, it's not as if it depends upon that morsel for life. No, the crow is a connoisseur who plucks out the squishy delicacy for pleasure, not necessity. 

My first experience of the hatred crows inspire was delivered via a crow feasting on a road casualty. The sight seemed harmless enough to me. What better way to dispose of a carcass that would otherwise provide for the breeding of flies? Apparently, my husband did not share my opinion. In an attempt to run 'the bastard' over, he swerved off the road, snapped off a guide post, skidded in gravel, then returned to bitumen, unsuccessful. A hair raising manoeuvre when you're travelling at one hundred and ten. Meanwhile, the object of this suicidal diversion hopped calmly out of reach with a faint flick of its wing tips.  

Against this mustering of suspicion and hatred, I tried to assemble my city born scepticism. Crows were only behaving as nature intended, I tried to reason. They are nature's euthanizers. They dispose of the weak and vulnerable leaving the fittest to continue the species. It's not that they possess demonic intentions, they are simply taking advantage of creatures who have lost the cunning needed for survival in the bush through centuries of interfered breeding. The crow is not to blame but man. My logic fell on incredulous ears. 

'What the hell's she talking about?' 

'City born.' 

'Huh! That explains a lot.' 

Seven months after we purchased 'Omaru', Ed bought eight scrawny chickens at a local auction. He did it rather shame facedly since he'd always maintained in the past that chickens did little except attract foxes and spread disease. 'They were cheap,' he informed me with a shrug. I didn't care, chickens fitted in beautifully with my dream of self-sufficiency on an Old McDonald-style farm. They also put every scrap of waste to good use. Gleefully, I began to hoard peelings and bones, mix oil with stale bread and bring home broken biscuits from Friday morning teas at school. Imagine my horror when while carting a plastic bag of scrounged treasure, I surprised a glossy-feathered raider. 

On my approach, he rose up lazily and lighted on one of the posts. 'Shshoo,' I sputtered, swinging the plastic bag in an attempt to appear frightening, 'go away!' Fixing me with one red eye, he continued stripping a bone. 'Go on, I mean business,' I shouted and hurled the bag. The bag bounced off the wire, snagged and spilled its contents, whereupon he hopped to the ground, fished out a slice of bread and returned to his perch. I charged. He moved off calmly to the plum tree where he started cawing. I hurried to the back porch to collect the shot gun Ed kept propped up in the corner, in case of snakes. I loaded it up, the breach snapping shut with a satisfying sound. 'This'll put the wind up you.' 

I needn't have bothered. With the sixth sense of a psychic, he'd retreated to a safe distance where his heckling continuing. I knew I didn't stand a chance of hitting him, but I let one off regardless, as a sort of statement, but all I managed to do was unnerve the chooks who sped off in all directions. 'Great,' I chided myself, 'now we won't have eggs for days.' 

When Ed got home that night, I bombarded him with complaints. 'He'll be back,' Ed predicted confidently, 'you should have shot him when you had the chance.' I vehemently denied this, insisting I'd given him the fright of his miserable life. 'Just in case,' Ed continued, 'we'll prepare a little something for his return.' 

The little something consisted of small portions of poisoned meat placed atop the chicken coop. I expressed some concern about this technique, citing the possibility of native fauna taking the bait but Ed assured me nothing but a rat or a crow would visit a hen coop and either was welcome to it. He was right, of course but what neither of us took into account was the eerie intelligence of our target. When I thought about it later, it made perfect sense that the crow would be suspicious. After all, who feeds their chooks on the roof?  

What our little thief did next, I'm not putting down to vindictiveness but rather logic. Had that crow meant to be vindictive, he would have dropped all of the poisoned meat into the chook yard, as it was only three hens died. Three is a rational number. One ill chook might be a coincidence, two, and you could feel suspicious but still remain sceptical that the deed was done deliberately. Thrice is definitely the charm. 

The sight of those three little victims to our stupidity, disturbed me and I felt half inclined to give revenge up, then. Course, it had to be my fault. Hadn't I been the one who'd refused to make use of the time-honoured method of poisoning an egg? Our chooks suffered from a problem which produced soft tipped shells and occasionally one would make a meal of a damaged or broken egg.  

'Now we've lost three, instead of one,' Ed announced in frustration. I didn't bother to point out that losing one or three or none did not solve the problem. 'We'll just have to shoot him.'  

'I've already tried that,' I reminded him. The look said it all. 

The next morning, Ed wandered down with the scraps, shot gun tucked under one arm. He returned shortly after, bag empty, shot gun full.  

'Did you get him?' I questioned eagerly.  

'Did you hear any shots?'  

'No.' A long, thinking pause followed in which I scanned Ed's frowning face for clues and he made safe his weapon. Finally, he frowned deeper still, then observed: 'Tomorrow, you'll feed them.'  

'You got a plan?'  

'Maybe.' 

The plan turned out to be simple. My role would be that of decoy. While I distracted attention with a particularly delicious collection of titbits, Ed would sneak down the wind break, coming in from the opposite direction. It seemed foolproof. Problem was, we were dealing with no fool. Mister Thomas, as I'd dubbed our egg thief (after a form one teacher who could not be duped) was already waiting as I ambled through the orchard, the plastic bag crackling faintly. I pulled the wire handle and the chooks spilled out, jostling for position, eager to pick through their breakfast. Peripherally, I noted Mister Thomas' interest, then, unable to resist, I looked fully at him.  

He squatted nonchalantly on his usual fence post, only a sort of keen glint in his eyes gave away his interest. For a moment we sized each other up, then as if an old soldier hearing a distant trumpet, he swung his attention behind. In a flurry, he was gone. Two minutes later, Ed walked into the yard.  

'He heard you.'  

'I know.'  

Ed stood musing a moment then jerked his head up with a sniff, 'Saw a bunny over there behind the hay shed. Think I'll have a go at him. You get ready for work.'  

'O.K.'  

For a few moments more, I stood watching the endless peck, peck, pecking at my feet. It'd be nice if life were so simple, I decided. A whoosh of feathers to my left re-routed my thoughts. Mister Thomas had returned. I didn't know whether to admire his cheek or despise his gall; while I was making up my mind, he cocked his clever head to one side and began to caw in a way he'd never attempted before. The best way to describe the noise he was making would be to liken it to a kind of tut tut tut sound, the sort of noise made when scolding. A distant boom unnerved him and off he went, leaving me with the distinct impression I'd just been told off.

That little experience marked a turning point for me, I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that we were dealing with something more than a bird. I refused to have anything more to do with the murder of that creature. Of course, Ed persisted with various traps and springes, none of which proved successful.  

As summer, then autumn drew on and fruit ripened in stages, Mister Thomas turned to other treats and egg stealing ceased to be an issue. I grew used to him and even left a part of each tree un-netted so that he could help himself to a feed. His favourite was pear. The gluttonous way in which he gorged himself on a ripe pear was rather comical. A bit of a performance, I suspect, Mister Thomas - the original - had always loved an audience. 

Time and this happy compromise continued, until one day, a Saturday it happened to be, Ed's eager face appeared at the kitchen window. 'I've got something to show you,' he crooned. This could mean anything. I have been treated to a pair of insect bats nesting in an old rug sack but I have also been horrified by a poisonous looking black spider captured in a glass jar. The grape-sized abdomen on that arachnid makes me shiver as I remember it, even now. Ed never tells me what it is I am about to be shown, no matter how much I beg, it must remain a surprise.  

'It's not a snake,' I pleaded.  

'Use your brains, it's nearly winter.' True. I'd forgotten. 

'Not another spider?' 

'Wait and see.'

We were heading down to the yards. While we walked in silence, a tingle of premonition keyboarded my nerves.  

 'Where are we going? I hope it isn't far, I have got things to do, clothes to wash, essays to mark, you know.' 

'We're here.' I halted, waiting for revelation. Ed was nothing, if not a showman.  

'You can't guess, can you?'  

'No,' I replied sulkily, 'I can't guess.' 

'Look.'  

I looked. There, from the electric fence Ed had recently installed to 'stop the cows ruining the fences' hung a ragged, black shape. Its claws were tightly wrapped around the cause of its death, allowing it to swing in a spooky parody of life, except that it was upside down. It was Mister Thomas! 

'How'd it happen?' I asked, unable to keep a sepulchral tone from infecting my voice. 

'Oh, they often get caught that way. Land on a hot wire, then when they stretch out to take off, zap!' I shuddered, I couldn't imagine how clever Mr Thomas had electrocuted himself. Impossible, he was too observant. He'd have watched Ed putting up the fence and even if he'd never had the experience of a fence of that kind before (and that was hard to believe) he'd have concluded Ed was up to his old tricks and avoided it, on principle. No, there had to be another interpretation. Something more rational. 

An explanation glided into my consciousness as I returned to the house. What if Mr Thomas had... wanted... to die? No, stupid, stupid. Down, imagination, down! Only humans choose suicide, animals are programmed for survival. Still, the mystery encouraged strange thoughts and these continued to circle silently as the day proceeded.  

At dusk, Ed asked me to put the chooks away as he had turned off the electric fence and forgotten to switch it back on again.  

'Why didn't you turn it back on before?' 

'I forgot, I only just remembered. Anyway, I'm giving you the better job. I'm the one who has to open up the shed just to throw a switch, then lock it up again.' 

'Typical,' I muttered, pulling on boots, forgetting to check for spiders. The air outside was unusually wintry, with an almost antarctic bite. Fumbling with the gate chain, I stomped my feet, too irritated to return and fetch a coat. Smoke from burn offs in the surrounding national forests hazed stars and bloodied the moon. Peppercorns creaked and nervous birds fluttered. I hugged myself and hurried. 

Unbolting the chook shed door, I stepped into the fuggy stink, soothing the hens with, 'It's only me chookies, it's all right.' Yep, that'll make them feel better. I pushed close their escape catch to foil any lurking foxes, collected three eggs and stepped out again, more appreciative of the night's freshness. How do chooks put up with themselves? I wondered, forcing air through my nose. There was no time to formulate any theories, for as I stood there snorting their stench out of my nostrils, a tremor of unease started at the base of my spine and began slowly to travel to the base of my skull. Turning slo-mo-slowly to the right, I faced the epicentre of a tremoring discomfort.  

There, hanging by a length of orange baling twine, positioned prominently at eye level like a piked head reminder of what happens to those who draw disapproval, twirl-flapped Mr Thomas. His eye sockets were empty, there was just the slightest nail pairing-sized white of skull visible - the ants had probably seen to that. His beak, that long, wicked, normally so animated nib that had so reminded me of my old teacher, was melancholically ajar. As I watched, a small moth landed and crept inside for comfort. I gasped, then jumped. A wet patter made me look down. The eggs. I'd crushed them. Shit! From the corner of one eye, I saw a stray wisp of breeze lift the black shape up and flip it over like a steak on a grill. In my mind, I heard tut, tut, tut. It was enough for me, I sprinted. 

Try explaining to a practical husband why you were frightened by a dead crow.  

Try explaining that broken eggs are the natural consequence of a too early immersion in the literature of Poe. 

Try... well, you get the picture. 

'I put it there to frighten off other crows, you idiot. Don't see why it scared you. And even if it did, did you have to break the bloody eggs? It's coming on to winter, you know. We won't get many from now on in. Why'd you waste the few we going to get?'  

How do you explain to a practical husband the terror of potent imagination?  

There's something about crows that justifies all that poetry and literature have attributed to them, I've learnt that lesson now, Mister Thomas. I have, I truly have, I promise, I'm completely contrite, I am, I am...  

Please don't come flapping in my dreams... anymore.