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Last year a small bird drowned in our pool and was discovered by one of my son’s friends as they all plunged into the water without looking; but I like this year’s retelling of the story much better than last year’s, because now the story includes not a small dead sparrow, but rather a three-foot, black crow floating straight-up in the water (“and I swear this part is true, Dad”) with dead eyes that won’t look away.
Yesterday I saw a dozen crows trying to attack/distract the hawk that was eating their babies, and in the process had the honor of seeing an absolutely perfect “injured bird” performance flight.
A cold wind blew the crows in from god-knows-where and they alit on the powerline like hoary old priests watching everything with erudite disapproval hunching shoulder to shoulder as the squirrels scurried about before night fell like a wet blanket on the dismal valley.
The crows sat quietly on the powerline like cassocked priests offering a final benediction with a flap of a wing each time the valley echoed with the report of a gun followed by a duck falling out of the autumn sky.
Yesterday at the train station when all the other passengers headed for the exit, rather than blindly follow them happenstance dictated that I turn the other way to see a crow, with its head stuck in a lidded plastic cup, manage to stumble across to the platform’s edge, avoid falling into the gap, shove its head (with attached cup) into the geometric center of the closing doors and allow the doors to close, drawing back its head the exact moment before it would have been crushed, thus freeing itself.
“I don’t need no stinking Poe to know crows want to peck out my eyes,” Rufus said, and without any further explanation, informed Schuster that he was quitting the Sunday morning book club, which Schuster and I agreed was overreacting, even if Schuster’s pet crow had gone too far with the reenactment.
Cheri looked out her window watching the large crow hobble like an old man across the ledge, his wings folded around him gave the appearance of a ratty black overcoat thrown over arthritic shoulders poorly concealing a hunch back as he lumbered miserably toward the grave.
In his grandfather’s time, a crow might heist a bank and get away with only $20 or whatever he could grab up in his beak, which sometimes amounted to nothing more than a brochure or a stack of post-it notes, but thanks to computers and telephone wires (which gave Henri the perfect place to spy on tellers and learn their computer passwords), he was able to get away with millions each and every time.
On rainy days the English crows flew in circles, some clockwise, some counterclockwise, depending upon which wing they held their umbrella.
There would be more rock & roll crows today if Dick Clark had hosted American Bandstand from an Iowa cornfield.
The fossils of prehistoric crows show that they had cloven hooves; most paleontologists agree that they would have had a very hard time balancing on telephone lines.
The crow is the only native North American bird not allowed by law to perch on the roof of the White House.
A pet crow can be taught to both talk and play checkers, but studies have found that repeated use of the words “king me” has an 87% chance of leading to undesirable and frustratingly impossible ambition, both in the crow and the pet owner.
Playing checkers with your pet crow, while mostly fun, can lead to both undesirable ambition and unwanted pecking wounds.
While teaching your pet crow to play checkers is relatively easy, asking them to understand why a chess piece is named after an inferior bird will cause you nothing but grief.
Unlike the crow, the owl’s eyes are located on the front of the head, giving the owl a distinct advantage when shopping for sunglasses.
You never expect an 84 year old woman to say to you, “He cooked a crow in a can and made us eat some.”
It was ludicrous to even think that the crows could answer telephones or file papers or put together a spreadsheet for the boss or do any of hundreds of things that were necessary to keep the office functioning and the company profitable, yet there they were again Monday morning, gathered around the water cooler, apparently talking about their weekends.
Carlyle just wanted to have a person-friend, but every time he sidled up to someone he was met with shrieks of, “Get away from me you dirty crow,” and whacked with umbrellas and briefcases and in one case had scalding coffee thrown at him.
“I should mention that there have been several murders in the parking lot,” the Chief told the obviously difficult-to-deal-with prospective resident.
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