The Enviable Crow

There is something ethereal about the call and culture of a crow, that shimmering black bird with the eye of a demigod.

             She calls to her friends to warn them of danger, to tell them where there is food. She flies, calling, for reasons known only to her and her friends. To those of us stuck on the ground it seems a call of wisdom, a secret knowledge of the sky which we cannot even imagine because we can never see with her eyes nor feel that brilliant wind singing through her wings.

            She lines her nest with soft things--twine, mulch, mammal fur, and the occasional shiny object. I recently read an expert's opinion which claimed that crows, despite popular opinion, are not attracted to shiny objects. A pet crow I once had proves him wrong. She used to peck at the shiny buttons on my daddy's overalls; she stole small objects like washers and screws from his toolbox. I suspect that they ended up in her nest, if she had one.

            A mother crow raises her babies with the help of her mate and extended family. She is a dedicated mother and family member, so how incongruous it is that she is also a shameless thief, indifferent to the fact that she is unpopular among some members of mankind. She eats the farmer's corn, his grapes, and his melons, and she poops on his windshield, all with a merry heart. She helps herself to his garden with a guilt-free conscience.

             How clever, I think, to be a crow, and to see life through those unrepentant eyes