Skip to main content

A Murder of Crows

In the distance, just over the hill, I can hear the incessant caw-caws of crows, evidently upset about something. I leave the old gravel road-bed and follow a deer path through scrub-pines and eventually find my way to the clearing where thick woods gives way to an overgrown pasture. I can hear the fabric of my shirt-tail ripping as I pull free of briars that are  waist-high around the field's edge. The crows continue to voice their concern, and as I reach the top of a terrace, I see them, ten or more. I stand still for a moment so as not to alert them of my presence, but I figure that whatever it is they're bothered by is more concerning to them than an out of shape, bushy bearded, lug of a man like myself. I sidle up the hill toward the tree line, and that's when I see the object of their grievances.

About thirty feet up in an oak limb, sits a hawk. He is as still as a statue, and he appears unconcerned about the verbal abuse and continuous dive-bombing from the gang of crows. The only movement he makes is adjusting his grip on the limb with his claws. He stares out at the field as if he's trying to think of something else, and his passivity seems to be pissing off the crows more by the minute.

The crows are not the only ones surprised by the sudden change of plans, and I stand there with my jaw hanging as he takes flight out over the field and then circles back right into the angry mob as if he's stirring the pot. The hawk turns and rolls and flies towards me, and two of the crows go with him. It's the oldest trick in the book. I want to tell the crows that this is a trap, that he wants you to follow him, but I snap out of it and remember who I am pulling for here.

Now, I've seen hawks being attacked by crows before, and I know that if a crow screws up and gets under the hawk, he's a goner. The dog-fight continues high above the overgrown pasture and then the hawk leads them into the tree tops again, like he's trying to lose them. When they come out of the woods they fly directly overhead, and I turn to watch the battle before they go out of sight again. But when I turn, I see the most incredible move on the hawks part, as he rolls up and snatches the lead crow with his talons like picking an apple from a tree, and after flying a little further, opens his claws and drops the lifeless bird like a pair of dirty socks rolled together.

Without his comrade, the other crow pretends that he is running out of gas and cruises behind the hawk like an honorary escort before falling back and returning to where he came from. I can hear crows cawing through the woods, and I imagine soon they'll gather for a funeral whenever the coast is clear.

The hawk has landed somewhere on the treeline down in the creek bottom, not far from the old gravel road-bed, where I'll soon be walking, on my way back to the house.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Book Review: The Promise: A Fly Angler's Long Journey Home By Paul A. Cañada

My favorite stories are the ones that give the author depth and serve as a window of insight into a writer's mind. Within the first few pages, it is important for me to develop a connection with the author, less I will quickly lose interest. I don't mean to sound like some type of literary elitist by any stretch– it's just me being honest.  Reading the first chapter in Paul Cañada's new book, The Promise , I felt that connection immediately. Paul tells of his childhood growing up in a military family, having a father in the Air Force, and the moves and re-adjustments that had to be made each time his father received new orders to relocate. I did not grow up in a military family, nor did my family move from place to place, but the relationship between Paul and his dad gripped me from the beginning. For me, this laid the groundwork for what was to come.  As his bio states, Paul Cañada is an award-winning writer and photographer with bylines in dozens of magazi

Hunting the Hard Way

Early morning sun catches my eye as it peeks over the horizon. It seems I am at odds with the world this morning. Already a crow has found my hideout in the tree branches, and pointed me out to his comrades as a spy for the human kind among the oaks. Only minutes later, the squirrel that emerged from the ball of dried leaves in a high fork betrays my location with a series of shrill barks, and I’m sure that every deer within twelve miles knows of my plan and will steer clear of this patch of woods from now until two hours after sunset this evening.  Once the alarm calls fade, all is quiet again, too quiet. It is always coldest after daylight, and I sit shivering, without so much as a wren or finch scratching around in the leaves, or hopping from branch to branch to entertain me. For two hours I sit with nothing but thoughts of a warm bed to occupy my time. Forlorn and desperate for some sort of action, I lower my bow to the ground and climb down from the tree. I need to do

Love Letter

I wake this morning, to find your scent still lingering on my skin. With sleep in my eyes, I try to shake the heady buzz from the hours of being entwined with you the day before. I feel your residual energy flowing all around me. I step into the shower just to feel the rivulets of water wash over my body. You are all I can think about this morning, and I know that I will not find peace until I return to your side. I am completely, utterly, and desperately obsessed with you. When I look upon you, I am captivated. I am enamored by your beauty, by your natural sensuous movements. I follow every curve, trace all of your soft edges with my eyes, immerse myself in the rise and fall of your breath. You whisper mysteries known only to the deepest parts of my consciousness, and the narrative you speak to my heart is as old as the earth. I have watched you suffer mistreatment at the hands of so many before. You have been taken advantage of, used and abused, stripped of your purity. I