Friends And Relatives

Day 143: "Oh, I kinda thought from your name that you were Native American." If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that, I might not be rich, but I could at least afford a fancier spinning wheel and a dozen bags of good wool. "No, not Native American," I would reply. "I'm just a crow." Usually, the discussion closed there, but if any further curiosity was aroused, I'd say, "And my mother was a frog." My dad was a Luna moth, but no one has ever ventured that far into my genealogy. In fact, my dad was the first person to acknowledge me as a crow. Hoeing up hills for corn in the spring, he'd deposit four kernels in each: one for the worm, one for the crow ("That's yours"), one to die and one to grow. And I always got my allotment at harvest time. My hair was raven-black in those days, long and swept back into two "wings," and my beady eyes were almost as dark, and if that wasn't enough to give a clue, my peers kept me at arm's length or further, as if they found me socially unacceptable. I was curious about everything, and yet wary of new experiences until I had sized them up from all angles. There were other commonalities with Corvus brachyrhynchos as well, enough that I began to identify with the iconic black-feathered friends who seemed to share my personality (but oddly, not with ravens). Eventually, "Crow" became a nickname, and today there is hardly a person who calls me by my given name, or even knows it. No, I'm not Native American. I'm just a crow. And that's the size of it.

First Snow

Day 25: Intelligent creatures tend to be curious about the world around them, taking new events and circumstances as learning moments. On the most basic level, this contributes to their survival, but among the brighter bulbs, it can also be an opportunity to experiment. A young crow, seeing snow for the first time, might notice that it was colder than bare ground. However, with birds' countercurrent circulatory pattern rewarming blood from the legs as it returns to the body, this would likely fall into the category of "just how things are" and not be worthy of a second thought. The fact that a beakful of crisp white crystals turns rather quickly to water would be lodged in the brain for future reference in case of thirst. So far, we're talking about things which are almost instinctual, but what about play? What if you discovered that with a toss of your head you could shower one of your companion crows with this strange white stuff before it had a chance to melt in your mouth? Doesn't that sound like fun? On several occasions, I have watched what could only be called "snowball fights" between young crows or raven couples. The parties involved were unmistakably enjoying the experience because neither participant made any attempt to leave the scene despite having plenty of opportunities to do so. In fact, the game usually culminates with one or both of the players getting rolled about before settling back on the fence to dry out. Corvids play games in summer as well, catch-the-stick (baton-passing), aerial acrobatics and so on, but my crowd seem to enjoy winter sports most of all.

Friends At Breakfast

Day 91: After being given a clean bill of health from my oral surgeon last Thursday, I decided it was time to have my Christmas dinner. I'd bought a nice little turkey in early December, but of course the tooth situation had put my high-flown plans on hold: no turkey, no Brussels sprouts, no cranberry-horseradish sauce despite the fact that I wasn't in any particular pain. So, Friday morning found the turkey still somewhat frozen, so a soak in the sink finished the thawing process and by a little after noon, I had it in the oven. Now it must be explained that my favourite part of the turkey is the soup I make from the carcase. I'm not quite to that point yet (it was a 12-pounder, after all), but part of the bargain is that I share the stuffing and giblets with my friends. This is even more important now that there's some snow on the ground. These two crows seem to be a couple. They stay close to one another, whether on the ground or sitting on the fence. They engage in allopreening and intimate beak contact, both typical of a newly-formed bond. Behaviour would indicate that the one in the foreground of this photo is the female, although it usually takes me a few minutes to sort out who's who when they first land.

Christmas, Cawed

Day 71: A light dusting of snow fell last night, just in time for me to create my annual Christmas, cawed. The usual guests showed up for breakfast: dog kibble, black-oil seed, mixed seed, suet, laid out on the sideboard in lavish supply for the welter of crows, jays, towhees, juncos, porch parrots, sparrows and chickadees who flock in to bring good cheer. There are the gate-crashers, too: snotty, spotty starlings, gluttons of the worst sort and rude in the bargain, but I can't bring myself to deny them a place at the table, no more than I could have ever slammed the door on bickering, unpleasant in-laws despite a wish to the contrary. It's Christmastime, and everyone deserves a little kindness regardless of their nature. More snow is in the offing...and as I always say, it will be on the awning as well. Let it fall! No feathered friend will go unfed on my watch.

The Crow Board

Day 97: It's almost impossible to get a good photo of any of the Breakfast Bunch for two reasons. One, no matter how I angle the shot, the background is a dense screen of Douglas fir. Two, although they are comfortable with me standing on the back porch with almost anything else in my hands, they are highly suspicious of the black-bodied camera with its glinting eye. Even if I stand well back in the kitchen and shoot through the double-pane glass of the door as I did for this image, they are wary. Still, the Crow Board has gone through many iterations in thirty years of daily use. The platform has been replaced several times and the post at least twice. They're not bothered by new wood or shiny-bright nailheads, but let the lens wink, and they scatter. Sometimes as many as a dozen birds crowd onto the board, wings flapping to maintain purchase on the rough edges as beaks dart below other beaks to snatch a bite of dog kibble. Older, cleverer birds wait for an opening and then pack multiples in their bills before flying off to eat them at their leisure.

Packing Expert

Day 271: I took advantage of cooler weather to sit outside with friends while they had lunch today and couldn't help but admire their skills at packing for future picnics. All guests but one filled their sub-lingual pouches to capacity and then deftly collected four or five more round pieces of dog food until their beaks were stuffed as well. The remaining visitor (nicknamed Timid) approached the feeding station with trepidation, landing only long enough to make a quick thrust at a piece of food, knocking it to the ground to be retrieved on the second try. I suspect Timid is new this year and hasn't learned the ropes. On the other hand, Sweetheart sits on the fence patiently, waiting for me to walk away. When I caw softly to her, she responds with the same syllables, acknowledging me in the same tone.