Jan 15 2008
Crows…
In the evening the crows now flock to Oakland and roost around WQED. Everyone notices them and asks me what the crows are doing.
Expert answers, by Dr. Kevin J. McGowan of Cornell University, can be found here. Please do click on the link and read about it. It’s fascinating!
My answers - totally non-expert - are best expressed by my favorite poem that describes what these entertaining black birds are up to:
Crows by Doug Anderson, from Blues for Unemployed Secret Police Curbstone Press ©2000. Reprinted by permission, http://www.curbstone.org/.
Crows
Hunch in the trees
to gossip
about God and his inexorable
experimenting,
about deer guts and fish so stupid
you could sell them air
and how out in the deserts
there’s a dog called coyote
with their mind
but no wings.
Crow with Iroquois hair.
Crow with a wisecrack
for everybody,
Crow with his beak
thrust through a bun,
the paper still clinging.
Then one says something
and they all leave,
complaining
the trees are not
what they used to be.
Crow with oilslick eyes.
Crow with a knife
sheathed in a shark’s fin.
Crow
in a midnight blue suit
standing in front of a judge:
Your Honor, I didn’t
kill him,
just ate him
and I wasn’t impressed.
Crows
clustered in the bruise light
in the bottoms
of dreams.
Crows in the red maple.
Crows keeping disrespect
respectable.
Crows teasing a stalking cat,
lifting off at the last minute,
snow shagging down
from their wings.
Crows darkening the sky,
making fun of the geese
on their way to Florida.
Crows in the roses,
beaks and thorns.
Crows feeding lizards
to their brood.
Crows lifting off road kill,
floating back down
after the car has passed.
Crow with a possum eye
speared on its beak.
Crow with a French fry.
Crows
in the chicken cages
on their way to market,
the farmer finally gone mad.
Crows hunkered down
rumpling feathers,
announcing the cataract
of snow
over the sun.
The crows prosper.
Carrion is everywhere.
The night
that is coming
is so dark
it will feel
like fur on the eyes.
So dark suddenly
you cannot see the snow.
Thrust your hand in it.
Hear it like sand
blowing on the roof.
A crow shifts his foot
and snow sifts
down from the tree.
(The picture is a stock photo of a raven.)
Kate - I just found your blog and can hear your voice as I read your insightful prose. Oh that we were sitting on the porch at the Harbourside eating blueberry muffins and chatting about what we saw yesterday before heading out on our next adventure. The crows up here have been chased out of downtown Auburn and Geneva but lurk on the limits, beyond heckling from humans–for now, at least. Every now and then I see them stir en masse from a stand of spruce or hardwoods. It’s good to know that you’re on the lookout in Pittsburgh and sharing what you see with others. Cheers.