This creekhouse is where I work each morning. My writing room is tiny, about 4′ by 7′. The rest of the area is a screened porch overlooking the creek. From time to time, crows fly in and bathe below my window. They’ve done that for generations, so likely the old ones tell the young ones, follow me for a pleasant bath near a human being who means us no harm.
That little building behind the creekhouse is our chicken coop, a magnet (and frustration) for foxes, raccoons, and hawks.