was sitting on my back porch, enjoying a cup of coffee. The morning air was cool and still, with only a hint of wind softly rustling the leaves of nearby trees. The neighborhood had not yet awakened, and the only sound was the sweet morning song of some early rising birds.

I sighed, and snuggled deeper into my creaky porch chair.

As I listened to the musical chirping of the birds, I was able to discern several distinct calls. I wondered which of the birds that routinely visited our backyard feeder was singing which song. I recognized only the soulful cooing of the mourning dove.

As my mind lazily drifted, I became aware that the soft warbling drifting from the mulberry tree had taken on an urgent tone. Suddenly, screeching replaced singing and the leaves of the tree began a frenzied shaking.

I wondered if a cat had gotten up the tree, but it was not so.

As I watched in open-mouthed horror, two grackles descended from the tree, one on either side of a smaller, falling bird. They pecked at it viscously as it fell.

As the bird-victim hit the ground, the grackles landed beside it, still pecking and screeching. Their intentions seemed clear enough and, horrified, I jumped from my chair and screeched back at them.

"Stop that!" I yelled, running across the yard to the scene of the crime and chasing off the grackles.

I had just witnessed my first bird-murder.

As I stood over the body of the little brown bird, limp and lifeless on the ground, the grackles continued to screech at me from their perch on the telephone line. I wanted to ring their scrawny little bird necks. Instead, I confiscated their prey and deposited it, tenderly, in the Dumpster.

So much for my early morning reverie.

I later discussed the disturbing event’ with my husband, who reminded me that some birds do kill other birds, and it was just a part of nature.

Well, fine, I said. I just didn’t care to see that much nature in my backyard. And while I might have accepted them killing a mouse, it really bothered me that they’d kill a fellow bird, a member of their own species. It was savage, uncivilized, barbaric.

If birds are going to fly around pecking other birds to death, then they ought to do it somewhere other than quiet neighborhood backyards, where we nurture our songbirds with feeders and birdbaths and cute little birdhouses.

Go out to the desert and peck something to death if you must!

A neighborhood cat has been slinking through my yard of late. I watch him move, swift and silent, as he crosses the alley and leaps, effortlessly, over the back fence.

I see him low-crawl through the yard, his sleek black frame forming a sharp contrast against the green grass as he hunts for prey.

You probably know what I've been thinking.

I hope he gets a grackle.