Author Archives: Scott Bowles

Trajectory

Trajectory

Contact is a question
without a mark.

And afterward,
only motion remains,
sketched in midair
and disbelief.

The sky forgets
what it held.
The ground rehearses
its lines too late.

Time folds
not forward
but sideways,

and the body—
once confident—
becomes punctuation
in someone else’s sentence.

Even gravity
needs a beat
to catch its breath.

Supporting My Neighborhood Murder


I have an amazing backyard. It’s not landscaped, exactly.

It’s lived in. Alive. Birds flit through the air like punctuation marks. A hooting owl resides in the next door pine tree. Once, a chicken— a chicken—hopped over the back fence like a neighbor who’d had enough of her own yard.

Another time, I heard coyotes. Not in the distance. Close enough to lock in the dogs. It’s that kind of place. Not wild, not tame—somewhere in between.

But what’s taken hold of me lately are the crows.

They’ve lived here longer than I have. I know that much. You can hear them early in the morning, like they’re opening up shop.

They don’t sing like songbirds. They debate. They discuss. And then they squawk orders. I’ve always liked their rough-edged cleverness, their unapologetic presence.

And I’ve read the studies—how crows can recognize human faces, how they remember kindness, and cruelty. That stuck with me. It meant you could have a relationship with them, if you respected their intelligence. If you listened.

So I bought peanuts. Ones in the shell, the kind they have to work at. I wanted to give them something worth their time.

At first, I wasn’t sure they noticed. I’d leave them out in the morning, under the patio overhang, and go back inside. Nothing.

Then one day, I heard it—the clatter of claws on the tin roof above the patio. Metal on metal. Curious tapping. Then silence. Then the crunch of a shell being cracked.

The crows had come.

I didn’t see them at first. But I could hear them. Not just eating, but talking about it. One would land, grab a peanut, lift off. Another would follow.

They knew. They knew the source. And they’d taken the first step. Or maybe I had.

Today, when I stepped outside, one lingered on the roof. Watched me. Head tilted slightly. Measuring. Not alarmed. Just watching. Maybe wondering what I’d leave next.

It’s early, I know. But it feels like the beginning of something. Not a training. Not a taming. Something better. A friendship, if they’ll have it.

And if they will, I’ll be here. Same time, same place.

With peanuts.