- Jalal-Uddin Rumi(1207-1273) Turkish Sufi Mystic Poet
Every evening at the end of dusk, we have a fly-over of crows. I am not referring to three or four - but hundreds of them, swooping and swirling from the South. A Murder of Crows, as such an event is called. They make a huge noise, and had I never seen Hitchcock's "The Birds" I might have never given them a second look. I think it rather astounding though, that they have this same pattern year-round...and frankly I now look forward to it, occasionally making a point to be out in the yard at the last moments of daylight to be there for the dark cloud as it passes overhead.
Personally I have liked crows in general for a long time. My parents' place at Mats Mats Bay had always been a haven for crows, and I remember waking up early in the morning more than once to the sound of one cawing loudly from a tree outside my bedroom window. As a teenager I was annoyed, but as time went on I tolerated the rude alarm. I realized that my parents were making the crows into pets, and fed them on a regular basis. Even after Dad died, Mom would feed one particular crow who would perch up in the top of a fir tree and complain until she emerged. I think in a way she thought of him as being Dad, returning every day to make sure she was okay and wanting her to fix dinner on time.
When we were in London, we of course made the tour of the Tower, where a flock of ravens is kept. Legend has it that if the ravens ever leave, the monarchy falls. So the ravens
are given a pretty royal run of the place, and while their wings are kept clipped to prevent them from making an unscheduled flight out the top, I didn't notice any of them making a run for it out any of the open gates. What took me by surprise was the size of these critters - I had imagined them to be slightly larger than wild crows, but in fact they are enormous and make the most obnoxious guttural growl. I thought about the poetic image I have had of Edgar Allen Poe with a somber Raven perched on his shoulder - in fact one of these birds would feel more like carrying a small goat around. Blackbirds come in all sizes it seems, and none would make a good songbird. Rumi's comment about Nightingales makes a good point, because they sing even when they are caged. Somehow I don't think this could be said of either the crows or the ravens; but they do give great pleasure. They are reassuring in their constancy, and they are surprisingly loyal.
We have a large ceramic crow on the front porch; we bought it in Montana, and I nicknamed it "Joe" after my Dad, and I often say hi to it when I get home in the afternoon. Somehow I think Dad would approve.
Every evening at the end of dusk, we have a fly-over of crows. I am not referring to three or four - but hundreds of them, swooping and swirling from the South. A Murder of Crows, as such an event is called. They make a huge noise, and had I never seen Hitchcock's "The Birds" I might have never given them a second look. I think it rather astounding though, that they have this same pattern year-round...and frankly I now look forward to it, occasionally making a point to be out in the yard at the last moments of daylight to be there for the dark cloud as it passes overhead.
Personally I have liked crows in general for a long time. My parents' place at Mats Mats Bay had always been a haven for crows, and I remember waking up early in the morning more than once to the sound of one cawing loudly from a tree outside my bedroom window. As a teenager I was annoyed, but as time went on I tolerated the rude alarm. I realized that my parents were making the crows into pets, and fed them on a regular basis. Even after Dad died, Mom would feed one particular crow who would perch up in the top of a fir tree and complain until she emerged. I think in a way she thought of him as being Dad, returning every day to make sure she was okay and wanting her to fix dinner on time.
When we were in London, we of course made the tour of the Tower, where a flock of ravens is kept. Legend has it that if the ravens ever leave, the monarchy falls. So the ravens
are given a pretty royal run of the place, and while their wings are kept clipped to prevent them from making an unscheduled flight out the top, I didn't notice any of them making a run for it out any of the open gates. What took me by surprise was the size of these critters - I had imagined them to be slightly larger than wild crows, but in fact they are enormous and make the most obnoxious guttural growl. I thought about the poetic image I have had of Edgar Allen Poe with a somber Raven perched on his shoulder - in fact one of these birds would feel more like carrying a small goat around. Blackbirds come in all sizes it seems, and none would make a good songbird. Rumi's comment about Nightingales makes a good point, because they sing even when they are caged. Somehow I don't think this could be said of either the crows or the ravens; but they do give great pleasure. They are reassuring in their constancy, and they are surprisingly loyal.We have a large ceramic crow on the front porch; we bought it in Montana, and I nicknamed it "Joe" after my Dad, and I often say hi to it when I get home in the afternoon. Somehow I think Dad would approve.
Looking outside I notice that this afternoon is warm, and it might be a nice evening to hang out and wait for the fly-over.
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