After all that might be said, there is this. Wild gyrations of the jet stream will soak our desiccated region with rain, which won't end the pandemic. Preparations for civilization's last war won't end. The climate won't go back the way it was. Business as usual was a dream.

About a week ago, the jet brought us high winds. It blew most of the leaves off the roof, the last stragglers off the trees, and it tore practically every last seed ball off the liquid amber tree. The trees are completely bare.

When the wind calmed, our crows returned. They landed where their nest had been, sadly pacing back and forth along the branch. And suddenly that first visit about a year and a half ago made sense. They had come to a limb directly overhead, the two of them, and crowed so loudly. It must have meant something but seemed inexplicable. I wondered if perhaps it was a warning. It was their announcement.

Dating from the days of my gardening rounds, we have a long history. That was when one of them followed my truck. He would settle on a favorite tree or TV antenna or light pole and watch. Then swoop down to land near my mower where the bugs were hopping. There were times when they both watched as I, more than once, rescued a chick fallen from the nest.

One day they called a gathering of the entire crow nation, which descended on Wood Duck Court. A huge black flapping crowd that blanketed the whole neighborhood, and the racket was deafening. Rosie, sitting in her chair on the front porch, was frightened. And the way they left was no less amazing – all together, all at once, as if by some unknown signal.

Next day, as I was sitting in the backyard, the pair of them came to the edge of the roof just over my head. They sat up there talking to each other, yelling actually, having some kind of argument. I just accepted it, knowing they are good birds. Sometimes there are arguments and we get over them.

Day after that, while I sat in the same chair, they came back. This time they went straight to the hackberry tree, to a branch where they began building their nest. No more raucous crowing. There was a softer sound, which I'm sure most humans haven't heard, a sort of musical cuddle. I felt included in the family. The nest was soon completed.

And next the wild weather, blowing it away.

No one looking at our barren tree will find any difference where their home used to be.