The crows cry in the distance. Circle a tree in large numbers. Something is happening. Could be a shaming. Owl, maybe. Or raccoon. Predator harassment. It works, you know. Makes the bastards think twice before messing with crows.
Everyone goes to see. The crows fly. We walk, me and the dog.
I'm not expecting a hawk. Red-tailed Hawk. Not so late in the day. Not at sunset.
In the branches of a leafless tree the hawk grips a lifeless bird.
This bird is a crow.
Dozens of crows circle overhead. Dive-bomb the bird of prey. Cry out with heart-wrenching emotion. It's a mixture, the things I feel, gazing up at this scene. Some of it is awe. Never have I seen nor expected ever to see an adult crow in the clutches of a bird of prey. Fears realized. An amazing feat. For the hawk, I feel compassion, maybe. Or detached understanding. Everyone needs to eat. This is the way of life. The rules of Earth. For the crows, I feel... overwhelm. Deep feelings yet to be processed. Screaming. One of their own. Death. Fear. I want to scream, too.
A passerby wants to see what I see. I point out the hawk. He makes asshat comments about wishing he had a shotgun. Says he can't stand crows, that they annoy him. I stare hard into his eyes. Hard enough to knock him over. Tell him fiercely that I love the crows, that I am friends with them, that I have strong bonds with them. He yammers out the kinds of sentences asshats yammer out when they feel intimidated and dumb for saying asshat things to an attractive woman who is point-blank acknowledging the ass he is wearing on top of his head to keep what few brains he has from freezing in the frigid air and under my icy stare.
He is a waste of my energy. I turn and walk away from him in mid yammer and don't look back.
More screaming. In the fading light I peer up, hoping to see the crow's face. Hoping not to. I beg the universe not to let this be a crow I know. Not to let it be one of this year's babies. Not to let it be the Chicken baby, whom I just christened today as Moose. Please don't let it be Moose. Moose who looks just like his big brother, Hopper. Tweenaged Moose, who, in the dregs of autumn, still begs his parents to feed him. Please don't let it be Moose.
It's dark, I can't tell who the dead crow is.
The hawk is huge. Even bigger when seen in contrast to my glossy dead friend pinned under giant yellow feet. I think she is female. She wears rust-colored downy winter trousers. She is magnificent. And I hate her.
She makes to fly away. The crows swoop in thick, threatening, throwing insults, crying. Eventually she gets ahead of the crowd, takes to the air. A salmon-colored sky frames her silhouette. Giant wingspan. Effortless flight. She clings tightly to her prey, crows swirling and scolding and grieving in a cloud all around her. Chasing her.
"Yeah, get that fucker!" I shout into the air. I chase after her, too. Carry my little dog so as not to drag him.
The hawk takes shelter in a pine. Here she can feed, safely nestled in the branches. The crows wail. I watch. It's all that we can do. None of us can stop what has already happened.
I hold my dog in my arms. He trembles. He knows the crows' voices. Knows their calls. Knows that this is significant.
Black feathers float to the ground as the hawk tears into her dinner.
Walking back toward home one crow spots us. He circles out of the crowd. Lands on a branch nearby. In the dark I can't see who it is, but no matter. He knows us. I put food on the ground. Talk to him. He is shaken. I give him space. When I am half a block away, he comes down to collect the food. Takes it back up to the tree.
I am raw. Unsettled. Wishing I hadn't seen what I had but grateful to be there with the crows, to share their fear and grief. I talk to my dog. Explain my gratitude over not living each day in fear of losing one another to a predator. I think he understands. I take him to his favorite store. Buy him a toy. At home we gorge ourselves on good food. Sit in front of a warm heater. Lap eggnog from mugs and platters. Feel what we feel. Love one another.
Tomorrow we get up early. Head out to count beaks. Look for everyone we know. Look for Moose.
It's going to be a long night.
The story takes place in Portland, but these crows were photographed in San Diego with my Nikon D7500.
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