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Crows are nesting. I've been watching them lay claim to the hill, its leafless oaks and protective pines. This morning, several flew loudly above the trees, unsettled for some reason, then pulled up in the crowns and contemplated each other. One set to making a familiar announcement: a five-syllable, short 'ca' sound, each syllable evenly spaced. I've heard this call many times and know it means something, but I don't know what. (I've also heard the same call, but with the middle 'ca' omitted—leaving a glaring empty spot there. With crows as with humans, I suspect, a lot gets said by omission.) As this first group gathered high in the trees, three others flew silently toward them but somewhat below, amid the trunks and limbs. Onlookers, observers. Nearby, meantime, a single bird sat possessively on an upper branch of a pine where I know a crow's nest bore fledglings last year, turning its head occasionally. A breeze ruffled the feathers of its tail. I sometimes wish I understood crows' language. It's clearly an expressive one. | |||||
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Bird Report is a discursive, intermittent record of what's outside my window in Rockport, Maine, USA (44°08'N latitude, 69°06'W longitude). —Brian Willson | |||||
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