"Of all of our native American birds, the crow has most thoroughly mastered the problem of how to thrive in the face of heavy odds. Tough, resourceful, amazingly intelligent, it prospers despite the handicaps of a large size and a jet-black uniform which make it almost startlingly prominent." Robert S. Lemmon

When the crows unexpectedly turned up, the stark rainy day had the trappings of a scene from Macbeth. I could almost hear the faint echoes of the Shakespearean witches singing " Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble." And these black birds have known trouble. It started a few years ago when West Nile virus appeared. That's when they started disappearing, seen only here and there, singly or in pairs. I don't need a scientific report to tell me, what I feel in my gut; that they are victims of that pestilence. My proof is eyeball proof.

My doctor remembers when he would drive North Shore roads and watch them get out of the way of speeding cars. Now he sees none, he remarked with a trace of sadness. There used to be crows outside my door all the time and I enjoyed them because they were there, big, black and a good show. They cry out distinctively and will carry away almost anything they can, from strips of road kill to a pink ball. Henry Ward Beecher is said to have remarked "that if men wore feathers and wings a very few of them would be clever enough to be crows." But smarts are no inoculation against disease.

I grab a pair of binoculars and go out to watch them as leaves blow off trees, hoping that there is no West Nile virus in today's raw air to infect them.

At first there were two, then three; finally three others joined them, making a total of six. A small army compared to what I've seen in the recent past, as they advance, not on Birnam Wood, which was adjacent to Dunsinane, site of Macbeth's castle but to a neighbor's lawn.

Their feathers look uncharacteristically flat, partly because of the rain but they also lack sheen and their sometimes-purple hue, which glistens in sunlight. They go through 2 square yards of earth, torn by their thick ungainly bills, which they wield like pitchforks, wildly chucking some pieces of it away and harvesting the rest with zeal. Holding bits of earth in the air, while searching them for prized morsels, they remind me of children who, years ago, used to dig into a box of crackerjacks, hoping to pull out a cheap plastic trinket. The crows hold the tidbits in their bills, shaking them with relish, as if they were about to swallow a bracing delicacy. They proceed to another lawn. Meanwhile I try not to get too close and scare them.

Comically, one takes a break from digging, pulling at a clear plastic wrapper, which holds today's Newsday in which there is a story about the shortage of human flu vaccine. I don't want to think about the ramifications of that at this moment. The rain wets my binoculars that are as waterproof as the crow's feathers. Outside in the elements, as they are, I have a newfound respect for the birds. Now there are only three birds, which form a triangle, as they glean pieces of earth. Where are the others? Minutes ago this was a party. Looking around, I find one in the street and two others on a roof. Crows are communal and while feeding they will send one to act a sentinel and call out if necessary.

The crows below have gleaned what there is to glean and are now flying off, leaving another razed triangle that is three square yards. Impressive. Only one remains walking around and shaking itself. I've forgotten how big and ungainly are crows' feet. In my eyes they look wonderfully beautiful. The lone bird, with no time for nostalgia or aesthetic appreciation, flies, leaving me in the rain to make note speaking into my small tape recorder.

This dreary day has been turned into theater by the appearance of the crows. Some birds and humans, no fault of our own, get a raw deal through blind chance. What these crows need is salvation, which no one can offer them. But for today they've flown to a bit of lawn in a cold rain, found nutrients and have shown spirit. As they fly off to an uncertain future, I'm cheered. I don't know if there's hope in their small hearts, but in mine, it beats as the wings of the last crow carry the black bird out of sight.