For the 24 years I have lived on my tiny farm in rural Oregon, I have witnessed a gathering of crows in the Eastern sky late in the days of the warmer months. They are always flying South, as with some purpose. Sadly, the woodland hills have been stripped in recent years for vineyards, so the nightly event has gotten smaller. I’ve always wondered where they go and what mischief they might be up to. Finally, I’ve gotten around to write about it.
THE CROWS COME AT SUNSET
From all corners of the sky
Black silhouettes winging together as a noisy flock
On their way to their secret destination
Which I long to know
I imagine they are sent from the spirit world
Spies in the sleek bodies of birds
Black as shiny coal
From beak to tail
They find their nightly roost
In the high branches of leafy trees
An avian barroom full of raucous cawing and flapping of wings
As they share the events of their day
The news comes as far as the cold lands of the Far North
To the dry, pastel arroyos of the Southwest
all the way to the crowded cities of the East
Stories they observed from the world of humans
Comedies born from intelligence gone bad
The jokes and stories are centuries old
recycled with different characters
Told with such squawking hilarity
That feathers loosen in the crows’ wild animations
And float earthward beneath the branches
The party goes on as the sky turns dusky to dark
Stars slowly appear
The birds’ black eyes grow heavy and their voices silent
Then all that can be heard is the sound of crow breathing
And the song of crickets that welcome the night
