The
crows strut across the corner lot as I turn the car down Dogwood Drive in
Greensboro. They give me a curious look, an instant of recognition, before they
take to the air. By time I turn into the driveway of my home, four of them are
lined up on the wires of the telephone pole, heads turned to watch as I fumble
with the keys. They call with a raucous sound as they wait for me to reappear
with the cat food that has become their daily treat. I scatter it across the
pavement. They swoop down, wings furiously beating the air. They gather up
kibble in their beaks, fly away to caché it, and then come back for
more.
I
think of them as “my” crows, though our relationship is accidental. My
friend, Frank, has been putting out food for ages, hoping to lure back a
once-upon-a-pet cat back to the house that had gone AWOL one afternoon several
years ago. That cat never returned—to the crows’ delight. They love their easy
source of food. Now I feed them along with my other cats when Frank’s out of
town.
A
crow
reminds a cat sitter to put food out for his feathered friends.
The
crows on Dogwood Drive have introduced several generations of fledglings to the
joys of pet food. Last year, a juvenile, evident from its red mouth, called to
me from a hiding place among the leaves of the PawPaw tree, a soft chuckling
sound, as if we were sharing a joke. The youngster fearlessly flew down and ate
his fill as the more cautious adults watched from the wire, occasionally cawing
as if offering advice.
Once,
when I was late for work, I tried to slip out of the house without feeding them.
As I locked the door, I looked up to see a crow hanging from the eaves only
inches from my face, giving me a quizzical look. Immediately guilt-ridden, I
unlocked the door and returned with the food.
Crows
are easy to study. They’re large and noisy and usually tolerant of people.
Resident crows stay in their home-territory year-round. They’re everywhere:
strutting across manicured lawns, watching us from light poles, picking French
fries out of trash bins at fast-food restaurants. Driving down the highway, we
see them plummeting from the sky, wings tucked close to their body
as they do barrel rolls, then spread their wings and glide to earth. They
announce their presence, as well as that of other wildlife. They are the
color-commentators of the animal world, drawing our attention to the dramas of
animal life: a cat stalking a songbird, a hawk flying through the narrow opening
between houses, a young raccoon that has wandered away from its
mother.
A
crow plucks a crayfish out of Buffalo Creek in Greensboro, N.C. Crows are very
successful because of their ability to adapt to their environment. They eat a
wide variety of food, ranging from fruit, mice, and small
birds.
Studies
by John Marzluff, a professor of Wildlife Sciences at Washington University,
show that crows recognize faces. They study us. They remember people who are
kind and those who aren’t. And they convey that information to their young who
have no experience with those sorts of humans.
I
know this, yet I’m still surprised when I realize that the crows at a park near
my home appear to recognize me. I’ve been going to the Arboretum two or three
times a week for the past three years, camera in hand, drawn by the Eastern
Bluebirds and Goldfinches as well as the Great Blue Herons that fish in the
creek that runs through town. Three months ago I noticed that the crows
patrolling the entrance of the park no longer flew away as I approached.
Instead, they flew toward me, landing a few feet in front of me on the trail,
wings spread as if to sing “Ta-da!” I watched as they fished for crayfish or
turned over small rocks in search of insects. Last week, they even allowed me to
watch as they uncovered a cache of corn hidden in the mulch around the Crape
Myrtle trees.
The
crows seem to be as curious about me as I am about them. Or maybe they’ve
figured out that the hawks tend to avoid humans and so aren’t as likely to steal
their food when I’m around.
In
our urban neighborhoods, the raucous caws of crows rise above the hum of traffic
and the barking dogs, a reminder that the wild is never far away.
Photos
by Brenda Hiles
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