Then, they come: the crows. Their “kaw-kaw-kaws” announce to the wildlife world that I am there –at least it seems that way to me. A half-dozen crows fly high above me “kaw-kaw-ing” like motorcycles coughing and sputtering as they glide slowly along. Crow calls are loud, irritating to my ears and to my soul.
Genus Corvus seem like the rogues of the bird world. They disturb the harmony of field and forest. They ravage seed crops. They have been known to steal, and not only shiny things. A bunch of crows is referred to by the collective noun, “murder.” A “murder of crows:”an apt concept, isn’t it?
From jackdaws to common crows to ravens, these scavengers make up a third of the members of the family Corvidae. To most people, they are simply crows and not welcome.
Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” uses the image of this dark bird to express the melancholy Poe feels at the loss of “Lenore, nameless here forever more.” The poem would never have worked with a song sparrow or downy woodpecker. The bold, insistent rapping announces the raven’s presence. Once let in, the raven brings a mocking gloom to Poe’s soul. The thing speaks and vocalizes finality with its”nevermore” refrain.
Crows of any type flying over my head bring on a feeling of dread, like an omen of bad luck
So, my reverie this morning hasn’t lasted long, a murder of crows has startled me into another reality.