Crows I have known

It’s still winter out there: the snow is blowing around over the frozen ground. But somewhere nearby there must be open water, because the fish crows are back. I heard the call this morning: the distinctive “uh-uh”, like a three-year-old refusing to put on shoes. I love that nasal call. I had come to the land of the fish crows. When we first moved to this city on the southern edge of the Adirondacks, I wondered why there were trees full of juvenile crows all hanging out together. They sounded to me like juveniles at least, nasal and squawky; and they were smaller than the average crow. They flocked together, taking off from one tree and descending on another with loud commotion. Was this a roving band of city juveniles? I’d never seen this behavior before. Where were their parents? I soon found out they were a different kind of crow altogether. I had come to the land of the fish crows. And they were everywhere, till November, when they suddenly took off. Where did they go? I looked it

A baby crow (smaller than an adult, but fledged) visited the yard all alone, without sibling or parents. First it landed on the crow-feeding stump and ate peanuts till they were gone. Then it stayed on the stump and pecked at things only it could see: bugs, perhaps, or seeds. Then it hopped off the stump and started waddling through the yard feeling quite at home, looking left and right, pecking occasionally, once pulling up a dangling earthworm.  This young crow’s first foray to our yard unattended reminded me of those first trips to the corner store when I was 9 and 10, walking to the store with money and without parents, providing myself with convenient food like Lay’s chips and Sunkist orange soda. In the summer it was a popsicle or ice cream sandwich. My first attempts at independent foraging produced much less protein than the first attempt of this young crow, choosing earthworm and peanuts. I’m glad the young crows see our yard as a healthy convenient store all their own that th