The Secret Language of Crows
Copyright 2010 Thea Atkinson
Cover Design/Art: Thea Atkinson
Cover Photo from BigStockPhoto.com
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The crows called to me this morning. They’ve been so silent this last week that I thought they’d left until I saw a few lurking in the shadows of the trees.
My house hunches on a small strip of land next to a salt-water river that’s lazy when the tide is out and industrious when it’s in, bringing a host of flotsam to rest on the banks. There's trees around my property: white birch and maples and cat spruce, all warring for light and space. The maples win most often and end up stunting the others, reaching high into the air, filtering only a small amount of sunlight. The crows usually sit out there, preferring the spruce, roosting there in the predawn waiting for the unearthly moment they can call out to each other, call out to me, so that we both shake out our feathers and untuck from the fit of sleep.