Gift of the crows
“Hey Mao, did you know that there is a group of crows living in the tops of the reeds that are on the side of the forest, where the robin used to always make his nest. By the way, the robin has moved and now lives in the bushes next to the oak tree, there,” and she points with her arm, as we pause from our walk in front of our porch that overlooks the forest.
“You already told me that, indeed,” I reply.
“Well, I’m bringing it up now because I’m wondering,” and she looks at me penetratingly, “could it be that those crows are bringing me gifts?”
“What exactly do you mean?” I ask her.
“Look,” she says, “and she points me now to the ledge of the back of the wooden bench which stands at the entrance of our porch, “you see these little items here, this time,” and she smiles, “a half-used slat of Dafalgan, they might know I can use that, and look, how beautiful, a piece of what was once a jewel.”
I look with surprise at the ledge of the wooden bench, and indeed see the two items she mentions, as if they had been carefully placed there.
“It’s been going on for a while now that I find such knick-knacks on that ledge, sometimes also nails and screws, and that’s why I thought Frans, who comes to work on the house here, was doing this to be funny, you know him, he likes practical jokes, but now I’m beginning to think it’s the crows. Look, “she says, showing me a picture on her iPhone, “that’s what was on that ledge yesterday.”
I can see the opening pull of a beer can, as well as a rather large metal hook, and some screws and roundels.
“Curious, and, I understand you were thinking of Frans, but I don’t think he would be concerned with this, so, your thought that it would be the crows holds water, I guess.”
I look again at the ledge of the bench, and my gaze then seeks the branches of the reeds, where a barely perceptible movement of some of the crows gently sways the reeds back and forth in a windless late afternoon. She notices my attention, and takes my hand tightly, as if waiting in suspense for something to happen. For a while, we both stand and watch the group of crows, though they hardly move and are silent.
“Crows are very intelligent birds,” and I notice to my own surprise that I am talking in a whisper, “they are also known to be fascinated by jewel-like items, if something shines they are interested in it, even the slat of Dafalgan, silver in color, might intrigue them that way, indeed.”
“Wait,” and she too whispers now, “would they know we’re talking about them now?”
It is too cloudy to see the sun disappear behind the forest to the west but the backlight through the thinner strips of forest casts a beautiful glow that reaches to the tops of the reeds.
“Have you ever seen the crows busy doing something near the wooden bench here?”
“No,” she says, “ I have never seen the crows even in the yard, they always stay high up in the reeds there, but I do have the impression that they keep an eye on us, really, or would I just be imagining it?”
“It could be,” I tell her.
“Lately I even have the impression that they follow me when I take my morning walk, you know, where I take the little road that runs past the Brabander horses, toward the Broek. Regularly, I see crows flitting in the treetops beside the little road, and more than that, I hear them scratching, with a rhythm that somewhere balances with my movements.”
“Really,” I respond.
“Something funny happened a few days ago with your brother, too, you know, which makes my belief that they’re keeping an eye on what’s going on here. Your brother rarely comes to the edge of the forest, but he told me that he was looking for some dry branches to use for the Christmas decorations he is installing on their patio, and since there are frequent dry branches to be found here with us at the edge of the forest, I invited him to pick some here. As he selected the branches he told me that when he was young he went to the gym and he was muscular and carried a nice six-pack, and he mentioned that you had not been interested in that, and had never been to the gym. It was a little boastful but good-natured, and well-meaning, no doubt. The funny thing was that every time he said something the crows, really as if responding to it, crowed very loudly. And it kept repeating itself every time he said something. I couldn’t help but say, “Sir Bert, they’re mocking what you’re saying.” It was really funny because it kept repeating itself, and your brother had clearly noticed it too. After a while he turned to the crows on a whim and I heard him shout, “You with your ugly squawking, what kind of sound is that now, take an example of how beautifully the birds sing that are in our garden.”
“And there is something else,” she continues excitedly now, “you know that long ago I have been systematically leaving our kitchen waste that is not spoiled in different spots in the forest, paying close attention to that it also always decays organically and is food for the forest and its animals. I used to slowly see that process taking place when I revisited the spots. From when the group of crows have come to live here, it goes much faster, I think they are now the ones who every time I leave some food in the forest consume it as their dinner.”
“Have you seen them doing so?” I ask.
“No,” she says, “I didn’t see it yet, but, as I feel that they are watching us, and that they are following me during my walk, so I have already had several times the impression that I was just too late to see them flitting away, when I check one of those places, and see that all the food is gone, very quickly, I had put it there only a few hours before.”
“I see what you mean,” I say, “if that is the case it could also really be that the goodies on the ledge of the bench are gifts for you.”
“I think so,” she continues as we both watch the twilight take shape around the trees of the forest. Suddenly a serenade of scratching bird sounds begins high in the reeds, we are both startled.
