We are happy to introduce Miyako Pleines as a new author for Chicago Audubon. Miya will write monthly Notes From A Casual Birder essays on her personal experiences with birds, along with occasional book reviews. And, we are doubly fortunate to have Miya’s mother, L. Hisako Nakashima, contribute her beautiful bird artwork. Enjoy this essay on crows - once common in the Chicago area, and now making a slow comeback.
I fell in love with crows during college. Each year in the fall hundreds of crows would flock to the small campus to roost in a nearby park. The first time I saw them filling the trees with their so-black-it’s-almost-blue feathered bodies, it was like witnessing an omen or curse, and yet I kept returning to the park to watch them, often walking the paths late at night listening to the sound of their ruffling feathers, their late night murmurs that were both soft and cajoling. If I closed my eyes underneath that avian canopy, I could imagine being taken by them, lifted up and away into the dark blue of their crow world, never to be seen again.
Art by L. Hisako Nakashima
Crows, those harbingers of death, they come to us unsolicited. We know them for their intelligence and their loyal dedication to family life. They like the company of other crows, a murder held together by talons and beaks and flight. They are the birds most likely to stop us in our tracks at the sound of their deep, guttural voice piercing through our urban landscapes, that menacing caw, caw, caawww. Their curiosity makes us uneasy, as anyone who has ever been watched by a crow can tell you. Their unwavering, stoic gaze often gives the feeling of being truly seen for the very first time, and maybe there is some truth to this, for they will remember you, your specific face, and whether you were friend or foe.
History is not always kind to the crow, often labeling these black, feathered beasts as messengers of bad luck. To see a crow is to see death in flight, ready to swoop onto anyone unlucky enough to cross its path. The crow has also been seen as a prophet whose actions and antics, if interpreted correctly, can bring misfortune, or better yet, good luck.
As we approach the end of October, and the trees begin to rapidly lose their now-vibrant leaves, I think of that murder of crows I experienced every fall in the middle of that park. Once, walking underneath the crow filled branches, my friend called out, a raucous, unbearable yawp. Suddenly, hundreds of startled crow bodies lifted themselves into the air with the magnified sound of a sheet being shaken in the wind. That blanket of bodies filled the sky above us, circling and scattering into the night like ash travelling upwards from a flame. In that moment, the crows possessed their menace, yes, but inside those dark, unfathomable bodies there was also a beauty so swift and so silent even in their chatter, I couldn’t help but stand perfectly still in awe.