They’re terrible birds,
says my granddad, an old farmer.
Eating the crops, making a mess.
We always used to shoot them
when I was a boy.
I watch for them,
to see them glide and dip and swoop.
Their wings gleam in sunshine like obsidian.
Sometimes they fly in formation, and
I think they’re playing.
They’re cruel birds,
my songbird-loving mother says.
Eating other birds’ eggs, and
(she lowers her voice)
eating their nestlings, too.
I throw fish scraps from my deck.
One crow calls loudly, and others respond.
Flying in, they always share the banquet,
looking up at me, bobbing their heads.
Are they thanking me?
Noisy, useless birds,
says the neighbour from across the road.
I don’t tell her how, in the spring,
I wait for the crow parents to bring their
awkward, blue-eyed babies.
I take my coffee out to the deck.
One of the crows lands on the railing,
cocks its head, and croaks hopefully.
I’ll give you fish later, I say, and
I trust it to tell the others.
by Caroline Owens
