A plague of grackles arrived on the 9th and filled the maple trees that lined the new farm’s driveway all the way to the Jarrettsville Pike. I marveled at their collective chatter, and how they would go silent at a single shout – Hey! Then how the volume would ascend in waves as they resumed their grackling. Loud claps worked, as well. Nearby birds would take flight, then return to the appointed branch. After three days, I wondered if they would ever leave, where they came from, where they would go. Annoyance set in. Could I shoot them? The bang worked no better than clapping. And shooting at the birds just because I was annoyed didn’t seem right. Once you start down that path, where do you stop? I went to the Hess Store seeking local wisdom, but unfortunately, insights extended no further than ladders and hoses. Then I guess I got caught up in the farm. I didn’t notice when the grackles left, but by the nineteenth, they were all gone. Grackles soon after became farm lingo for problems likely to go away on their own.