They seem to know I’m their friend, or at least not a predator, which has become a warped attribute in Billionaire Nation. If those fuckers weren’t making money, they’d be rapists or muderers; something serial. Now I forgot what I was talking about.
Oh yeah, birds. And the blue Planter’s peanuts bag that I bring out to try to bribe my way into the murder.
Yesterday, the dogs and I drifted into the yard to feel the sun and breeze and the day and the life. The crows called out wildly.
I didn’t know what they were saying, and the dogs don’t speak human, so they were no help. But it was a reminder that the crows’ dinner hour had arrived. Thanksgivings dinner.
We walked inside, fetched the nuts and returned. With a kiss-click call, I hook-tossed the peanuts onto the tin roof, and we settled into the daybed below, listening to music.
They descended within moments. Thumpthumpthump; it sounded like they were falling from the trees. But they were only landing heavily, firmly.
At first, the thuds startled us. But then we heard the lighter tapping as the crows hopped from peanut to peanut. Then the flutterwhoosh of the massive birds flying off.
Once they had their meal, the screeching faded. They were no longer cawing.
As the air grew still and the dogs grew bored, I walked back out to the counter and picked up the bag. I crumpled the crinkly plastic and pocketed it.
Before I reached the tin, a single crow gave me a two-caw farewell.
I still am not sure how to speak crow, but I like to think it was a thank you.
