September 10: To and Fro
Kristen Lindquist
While enjoying beer and chips on a sunny porch with friends this afternoon, I found myself constantly distracted from the entertaining conversation by the crows. First they made a racket on one side of the river, then a group of three or four flew across the river and hung out for a while. Then they started yelling again, and one flew away with something big and yellow in its bill. They settled down and crossed the river again. Then the ruckus renewed, and they flew back to our side, one bird cawing as it flapped right over our heads. Did it want some chips? Or spy a shiny bottle cap?
Since these same crows spend a lot of time within sight of my office windows, I derive a lot of pleasure from trying to figure out what they're up to. Sometimes it's obvious, like ganging up on a hawk; other times they're just a collection of black mysteries, doing crow knows what.
The mind of a crow
isn't always thinking "food."
But who knows what else?
Since these same crows spend a lot of time within sight of my office windows, I derive a lot of pleasure from trying to figure out what they're up to. Sometimes it's obvious, like ganging up on a hawk; other times they're just a collection of black mysteries, doing crow knows what.
The mind of a crow
isn't always thinking "food."
But who knows what else?