This morning I saw a murder of crows perched on our neighbor’s roof. I’m not sure when they landed, but I noticed them as I rinsed out my coffee cup, torn between emptying the dishwasher myself and waiting until Dylan came home since it’s technically his job. (I waited.) The first crow lifted into the air, then the second, black against the white-gray sky. The third, no longer part of a murder, strutted across the peak before coasting down to the ground. He pecked lazily at the ground before leaving.
He looked larger on the ground than the roof, black and gleaming, even in the gloomy light of a morning that would bring rain. I’m always surprised by the size of the crows in our yard. Accustomed to sparrows and cardinals, the occasional blue jay, and some woodpeckers I hear but rarely see, the crows seem out of place.
A few summers ago, we went to a tiny zoo and saw ravens. I saw the plaque for them before I saw the birds, and I questioned the inclusion of them along the path we were taking to get to the bat tower. Then I saw the ravens, and I realized I’d never seen one, at least not up close. I marveled at their size, the way they made the backyard crows look delicate. Their talons gripped the ground prehistorically, and I shuddered to think of the way they would feel if the raven perched upon my shoulder.
Their eyes saw more than I expected, promising intelligence I didn’t expect. It could have been an illusion, but it stuck with me darkly and slightly uncomfortably.
Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” grew more ominous after seeing those birds.
I thought of them this morning as the final crow alit into the sky. I was reminded of the importance of perspective, and the cruciality of experiencing certain things in reality and not just in imagination. Odd, how something as simple as a black bird can conjure thoughts of mortality and knowing. Odder, how I can still feel the gooseflesh that arose on my arms when I saw their eyes.