When James was about five, we lived with my parents, in a house that sat on a hill, overlooking a meadow in the foreground, and one of Portland’s city forests in the background. There was a large picture window to enjoy the view.
One Easter I hid the colored hard-boiled eggs outside. James soon woke up and went searching for his Easter basket. He was busy examining its contents when a large black raven flew past the picture window with a brightly colored egg in its claws. Then another raven flew past. We stood at the window and watched the ravens find all the eggs.