Along a four-mile stretch of Rainier Avenue today I counted 26 crows' nests stuck up in the crooks and branches of the deciduous trees that line the arterial. Last year's nests: some clearly wind-ripped, others still securely anchored. I cannot imagine birthing a brood up above the ever-present cacophony of urban traffic. And when the emptied eggs are tipped from the nest, they fall to no soft mossy bed, no delicate spring grasses. Chicks fledge into a shriek of steel, into auto exhaust and crushing rubber. It's no wonder crows are so street-wise.