2.25.17 Life on the crow path

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     Right around 5 pm, if I'm having a mandated rest rest resting day, I begin to notice the hundreds and hundreds of glossy black crows in this years' flock, as they begin to fly their way home to their roost, for a goodnights sleep.
     So I slip on sandals and put the pup on leash, and out we go in the springy snow-free mosses, to stand and watch he legions of birds go by.
     My house is on their flight path, possibly because it borders our long long range. 
     I watch them spilling out of the east, coming up past the High Fields and pour across, over the conservation fields. Their homelands, their neighborhood, their birthplace.
     They stream by overhead, their shiny coats shimmering in the dusk, each finger on their black black wings a clear silhouette , visible far up against the cool blue evening sky.
     They go on by, swooping and playing and flirting or going solo.
     They are big and little and in groups or couples.
     And the hundreds and hundreds of them find the flock at the start of each winter, for safety and socialization, and eventually for mating and their own small ones.
     Two summers ago, two crows here had five babies, who grew up, perched on an Oak branch over my compost. I'd see them smooshed up next to each other, whining and crying and egging each other on, to be the brave one, to go land down in the wooden open bin.
     Since then, the five of them remain close, insular, and they hang together, sometimes with one or two others, that seem barely tolerated.
     When I put out the compost, I call 'Corvids! Corvids!' Because they are smart and they learn these things. They begin to pay attention. And yes, it's true, it's fun to watch them eat spaghetti. And yes, I often divvy up pancakes into five separately places parts. Blame me being a big sister of five. Who knew.
     Sometimes they have perched outside when the compost is bare, and call called me quite clearly, to come out and dump something in.
     One year I got to know one crow , long before these five, and would put out peanuts each day, and gave them their very own bird bath to drink from and bathe.
     They would call to me from outside, to come hang out together. And then perch in a nearby tree when I'd come on out, as I sat in the garden to weed.
     But eventually it became spring, and I'd find dead baby birds carefully marinating in the birdbath, which is what crows like to do. Not so very different than humans who eat animals also.
Tonight, the light shifts and changes, the golden stream casting itself from the sun, on down upon the plains far down below, across the river that I will watch glistening into the sunset , until the forests green themselves up.
     As hundreds and hundreds fly by overhead. As I give thanks for the quiet life imposed upon me, that enables me to notice all these lovely quiet things passing each day.
     As I watch the many with their streamlined beautiful selves , flying past , over my home every evening, and off to their deep night's rest.