There were long shadows on the wet grass and rich rubescent light in the sky. The linden tree was in full flower, its fragrance filling the morning with grace. In the mature Colorado blue spruce at the back of the yard a pair of raucous crows croaked and cawed, flapping and darting about me, dive bombing toward my head as I stepped across the wet lawn. “Why are you guys so noisy this morning?”
I watched them flying above a place in the grass in parabolic curves of concern. As I approached, I saw a small black pile of feathers on the grass. Shiny black eyes looked at me, the small beak silent, folded wings still. My heart melted. “Have you fallen out of the nest? You can’t stay here! This is not a safe place. My cats will hunt you for sure!”
I knew not to touch a young animal lest my scent prevent the parents from attaching to it, initiating abandonment. Under the balcony there was a pile of empty plastic pots stacked for spring planting. I fetched one and with gardening gloves on I gently nudged the young crow into the pot. I carried it to the cherry tree and perched the pot sideways firmly lodged in the node of some branches.
The parent crows had returned to the refuge of the dense spruce branches, silent now. I felt them watching me.
Later that day I walked through the yard again, searching for the fledgling. The black plastic pot still lodged in the fork of the tree, the fragrance of linden still filled the yard, but the bird was gone. I walked the yard back and forth search pattern but found no trace of carnage nor struggle. “Did you get away to safety?”
Inside, Google tells me parent crows will sometimes push the fledged young crows out of the nest when the parents feel they are ready to fly. The young one may not feel ready nor prepared, does not yet know it own power, unaware of its destiny to own the sky. For once the elders know better than the youth, they watch and protect and push the offspring to leave what is known and discover flight. Today a young crow had learned to fly.
The following summer I was marking final exams on my upstairs balcony, sipping coffee in the early light. Lettuce was sprouting in rows in the gardens beneath the Colorado blue spruce, the beloved fragrance of linden lifted me, the distant mountain peak far up the North Thompson Valley was still capped with snow. A crow coasted down to perch on the black iron railing in front of me, cawing conversationally as he cocked his head from side to side, eyeing me first from one side of his head then the other. I began to chortle and caw back to him, imitating the ripple of his voice. He grew, silent, listened, watched, then repeated his gambit. This went on for ten minutes, our small version of a parliament of fowls.
Was it the same fledgling from the previous summer? I like to think he had returned to speak to me, but I am probably making up a story in my own head. (547 words)
Janis