It was a Florida warm day in which, in the mid-afternoon, I sat by a friend’s pool in the city of Palm Harbor. The sky was blue and cloudless, probably in deep contrast to the threatening storms of the north.
Suddenly, overhead, there were crows, a wide trail of them straggling, probably, over a mile or more, for just when I thought I might have seen the crow that was bringing up the rear there came another disordered strand of them, now and then a few circling away from the main body for some reason known only to God, nature and the minds of the birds involved. But ultimately, they, too, joined the movement (north?south? why, and where are they headed at mid-summer?) and high, so very high overhead.
I know less than I ought to — as just one mortal and longtime inhabitant of this planet — about the habits of birds, crows included. I like crows. They are said to be very smart. One or two at a Florida bird sanctuary actually talk, like their cousins the myna birds. My obvious thought, it being winter, was that this black airborne armada was, as I’ve already surmised, heading south, some of them squabblingly emitting that familiar crow’s caw as they went. Why? Who knows? Calling ( cawing) each to each as they go their jubilant way escaping to wherever they call home of northern or just north-of-here climes..perhaps even cross-checking their direction to be sure they didn’t wind up a lost tribe.
I’m just assuming they were migrating — somewhere. So many together, after all! Perhaps they are just out for a massive joy fly (I read later today that crows are known for a partial migration. I don’t know if that means all of them go somewhere farther south than their normal habitat or that only certain species make the whole flight far, far down through the hemisphere. I know for certain that many stay north all winter. I’ve heard and seen them. I must admire the stubborn resilience and regional loyalty of anyone — human or avian — who chooses to endure a northern winter. But, of course, with birds it’s doubtless dictated by some unalterable natural instinct; with us crazy mortals, it’s a choice.)
At any rate, I decided to pull out my iPhone and punch up the compass app. I’m no Boy Scout and I slept through my Army compass course. But any idiot could see the needle lying sideways and pointing toward the “S”. Those crows were flying south alright, farther south though it was mid-summer — farther south than where I sat in the middle of Florida’s west coast. Perhaps they just got a late start at migration. What’s the hurry, after all? I kept waiting for the last black bird to fly over, but they kept coming…so I never saw that last bird. Perhaps the great long sky-bound procession is so long that the last bird is still somewhere over Deleware tonight — if, in fact, they are going south.
But, then, I did eventually take my eyes off the sky and when I looked up again at some point, I found only blue. No crows.
Again, why were these folks getting such a late start south? I’ll be clicking on Audubon Society after I’m finished here.
Welcome, crows! I’ve decided both of us should, eventually, go north again. Back to your tangles of pine and oak limbs, me to that rabble of human dwellings down below you. Why? I’m not sure. Instinct, perhaps.
Update: It’s February 10, 2024. I’m still here in Florida, glad to be alive, nonetheless agitated within by a restless longing for home, wherever home might seem to be these days (perhaps that’s the crows” dilemma), and I’m being subjected to every human shock, including the just-concluded, very brief few words with my eldest brother lingering in one of those human rookeries known as a Nursing Home. He is fading, and my heart is heavy. Blessedly, however, he was being visited by my brother Ron and his wife Doreen. God love them! Thank you, God, for family.
I’m listening for crows. They came recently as a mob to my back feeders and to the Brazilian pepper bushes along the PVC fence. They fed busily, then left.
Welcome, crows. I’d love to talk with all of you, like Poe with his raven — hoping, of course, for a brighter exchange, a soul’s whole outpouring, not puncutated by…nevermore!
I’ll go load the feeder. I’ll go on with my Saturday. I’ll let the coming SuperBowl somehow urge me on to life, human life, vicarious thrills. (The Ravens, cousin to the crows, just missed making the cut this season. There is no team called the Crows. But I digress, stupidly.)
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