Day 292: When someone asks me what I collect, my first thought always runs to my marble hoard. It fills a five-gallon glass jar and spills over into a second container, and the tally is approaching 5000. Next, I think of the ceramic "worms" (caterpillars) on display in a shadow-box, a grouping which started with a gift given me on my first birthday. I may even cast a cursory glance at the shelf of Lomonosov porcelain and bird figurines, the bells, the cats, or any of several other less populous collections, in all cases my eyes slipping right past one of the most prominent assemblages in my home. I won't say they appear in every room, but visitors are never out of line of sight with some item of the numerous crow and raven representations I possess. They ornament the hutch top of my desk, hang on the wall in the kitchen, stand watch over me while I sleep. They emerge from my jewelry box, as cards and stationery, or from my library shelves. Many of them have been gifts from friends who know my abiding interest in the fascinating corvid family. Others have followed me home from shoppes both near and far away.
I have been associated with crows (and to a lesser extent, ravens) for most of my life. I've studied them, made friends with them, learned a few words in their complex and elegant language. I feed them daily, converse with them when I am hiking, or sometimes in parking lots if one invites me to an exchange of civilities. I often greet friends on the street with a loud and realistic "Caw!" which, to my great amusement, sometimes causes others within hearing range to look to the sky. I seek out crows wherever I go, sometimes as trinkets, sometimes as temporary companions, so yes, I'd have to describe my "best collection" as one of crows.
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