The crow hopped and landed with his beak striking deep into the mulch. He poked and jabbed then lifted his head skyward. In his beak was a collection of long stringy bits of bark. He tossed and shook the fibrous strands and then hopped and pecked into the mulch again until surfacing with what looked pretty much like the same trophies as before. This was repeated about five times as he collected and selected the stringy bark strands.
Finally,he stood upright and paused, looking strangely magnificent with his collection of nest building material draped from his beak like a long floppy, ginger moustache.
It was enough. He hopped around to face the road and took off, over Rouse Street and up Esplanade West. I had enjoyed seeing him being so particular with his choice of fibre.