My oldest nephew is here for the summer to work on the farm. He has hunter blood, having grown up in the jungle chasing crocodiles and snakes. While we do not have crocodiles on the farm (thank God), we do have plenty of blackbirds. They’re a nuisance of the highest order and can easily decimate a strawberry crop. The nephew, however, took a good chunk out of the population yesterday. He climbed up onto the trellis overlooking the goat pen and positioned himself among the wisteria. The blackbirds are fond of landing on the railing of the goat pen (to curse at the goats, I suppose, and to converse among themselves in slighting terms about gravity-bound creatures who cannot fly). Armed with only a modest pellet rifle, he executed fourteen of the little rascals in short order. Who knew farming could be so violent?