Be a Crow

In the early nineties, I lived in a rambling old house (a once-upon-a-time farmhouse) in Seattle, WA. I occupied the basement room, while the other four housemates each had a bedroom on the second floor. The main floor consisted of the shared living space, where we all would interact, as conflicting schedules permitted.

Although I’m rather tall, the sills of my room’s windows stood at eye level. Ground level was about mid-window; so, even after trimming the dense growth which often blocked any view of the very large yard, all I could ever see as evidence of the property’s many trees were bases of trunks.

But throughout the day, I knew the crows (visible or not) were up there. They would gather, arguing back and forth, raising a ruckus. I grew to absolutely love their sound . . . certainly not because it was melodious (if you’ve ever heard them, you know it wasn’t); rather, because of what it came to represent to me.

After a particularly raucous ruckus, one of the housemates (studying to be an opera singer) threatened (probably jokingly) to get a BB gun and shoot them.

“Oh, I love them,” I told her. “They could care less whether anyone likes what they have to say. They don’t care whether you think it’s pretty or not; like it or not, they’re going to ‘speak’ their piece.”

So, if you’ve a sound to make, by all means: Make it. Be a Crow.