Crows are my winter companions.
With the warmer weather, our little village becomes a more peopled place. With regret I admit I am a foul weather friend with the crows. They don't seem to understand.
This morning, I woke up to a crow sitting on a regular perch on top of a fir tree, not far from my bedroom window. The bird was scolding me as only a crow can scold.
I am not interested in crows in a scientific sense, though it is impossible not to know they have big brains.
They are my friends of long standing. I do not recognize each crow on a personal level though I suspect the crow in the fir tree this morning is the crow who visits regularly, when the moment is right. I can't tell one sex from the other. Either both sexes are discreet or they both flaunt their sexuality in similar ways.
Crows have such a wonderful sense of delight, sense of humour. It is not all work and no play in their world. Sometimes when the sea winds are blowing strong onshore, they tumble down through the air currents, blasting the North Mountain, having a whee of a time. The crows seem to be giving each other a hard time, encouraging outrageous behaviour or just sharing their joy. I think of my mother and my children whizzing down a favourite toboggan hill years ago.
The most fun is communicating with them. I sometimes use words, but am not kidding myself about crows' English vocabulary. I think they like the rhythm of it all. Sometimes I try to speak with them in their wordless language. I have no idea what I sound like to others, but it certainly catches the crows' attention.
When I work outside, I try to mimic their phrases. Poor crows find this interesting but puzzling. They repeat, repeat, repeat until either they get bored or deem me ready for some new sound. My summer neighbours already think I am somewhat tetched, so I don't want to encourage their imaginings. Therefore, my friendships are foul weather crow friendships.
The odd time I still let out into the sea air, my version of a caw, but it is indeed a serendipitus caw.
There is a small brook not far from my house, as a crow flies. By foot along the shore or up along the gravel road and down a laneway by the stream, is more than a stroll and less than hike. Sometimes on warm evenings, a friend and I go over to sit by the small waterfall, where brook meets the sea. We each sit on a rock watching the tide go out or the tide come in, talking about everything or nothing at all. The crows come over to join in on the conversation, realizing I am still their friend.
My black feathered friends wait patiently for foul weather, when our friendship will once again flourish.
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