Crows, I am told, can tell us apart with exquisite ease and, of course, have no problems with each other, whereas we — even the most skilled corvidologists — are unable to distinguish one of them from another in any subtle and automatic way. Except for me — my beautiful crow is the one that places the walnut in the road when she sees me rushing to work, caws and flaps in the air as I pass, and glides gracefully to the meats exposed by my tires. She is confident of my intentions and is, in turn, faithful. She knows me regardless of conveyance, and ignores all other vehicles, which would as soon hit her as the nuts. It is a strange affection and if I were a crow, I would go out of my way to dine with her as often as possible.