A waxing gibbous moon rising over the mountains, and a long — miles long — line of crows intersecting the sky in a southerly route to their nighttime roosting place. Late winter, chilly, and too many things in bloom: flowering plums and tulip trees, narcissi and forsythia, and the impossibly sweet scent of daphne everywhere.
I was the crazy person on the sidewalk, struck dumb, face turned to the sky in awe of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of crows. Just when I thought that was the end of them, along came more, and yet again more. Envious of their ease of flight, their utter unquestioning direction. Knowing that, like them, after a long day of making my way in the world, I was headed home.
Hello - I have come over to read your post from Cro's blog and struck lucky in that you speak of crows. They are my favourite bird. Where we live in the Dales of North Yorkshire we have a very large rookery (which is most likely what your crows are) about a mile down the road. At certain times of the year (now is one of them) they pass every morning on their way up Dale on a search for food. We estimate there are at least ten thousand of them - theymake a fantastic lot of noise as they pass and in flocks, then dribs and drabs, then a steady stream - they take a good half hour to pass. I love every minute of it.
ReplyDeleteWeaver, you are a lucky person to witness such a massive fly-by of corvids! Wonderful to know that there are others on this magnificent planet with eyes raised to the skies to let in all that black wing-flapping.
ReplyDeleteMarch greetings from Seattle!
—T.