A Bad Winter For Crows

Now that the weather's warmer it's hard to remember, but this last winter was a bad one for crows. We get them every year here, it's part of their migratory pattern. Corvus brachyrhynchos. A small flock or murder usually settles near the dump or in one of the empty lots. They typically arrive in mid-November and are gone by the first snow. At one time, we affectionately thought of them as symbols of changing seasons, mascots for late fall. But this year, the crows brought friends, came early and stayed late, like bad party guests.

By the time the pumpkins were out for Halloween, our cars were covered in crowshit. We'd never seen a murder so big. Crows were on every roof, in every tree, and more arrived every day, at dusk. (We never saw them during the day). They were aggressive too, in ways never witnessed before. On Halloween night, they were swooping in at folks, perhaps attracted by the colorful costumes and shiny foil-wrapped candy. Trick-or-treaters had to run from one house to the next swinging their candy bags overhead. The crows would flap down, snatching hats and rubber noses, scaring the kids. I watched it all from the upstairs window, in the dark, smoking. Now and then a big black shadow would come and smack against the glass. My guess is they were interested in the glow of my cigarette.

The first snow came and went, melting quickly, as it tends to nowadays. The crows stayed. They stayed through Thanksgiving, and well into the holidays. It snowed again and the crows stayed. Their presence went a long way towards souring the general mood of the season. Crows chewed through strings of lights, stole ornaments and garland from trees. Carolers were shouted down by a deafening chorus of caaah-caws overhead, or sometimes they were just chased away. We were forced to cancel this year's Nativity play in front of St. Liborious -- the crows had annexed the manger and one of the Wise Men got bit on the finger.

After the New Year, when the real cold finally set in, the crows became noticeably less hostile. They stopped divebombing pedestrians. No longer did they tap on your windows all night, or hiss at you as you ran from your car to your front door. Maybe the freeze mellowed them a bit, slowing the cold blood in their veins. Or maybe they got bored with us. By mid-January, the crows were downright timid. You could shoo them off your stoop without getting your ankles nipped. Knowing they were now scared of us, we made it a sport to chase them from tree to tree. Their numbers were thinning. The chorus was quieter. And one night, at sundown, the crows just weren't there. It was the first of February, and the last crow had left. Back to where they came, I guess, or down south somewhere, like Arkansas.

Portent of Spring Doom

Birds and/or Monkeys

Downtown in another empty, dirty river city. The vacant high rises all along the river have become home to migrating birds: bald eagles, prairie falcons, wild canaries, tufted titmouses, red shouldered hawks. As their natural habitat disappears, the birds are driven to nest along the ledges and rooftops, some staying here year round. In winter, when the streets are empty and the air is clear, the wind can carry the birds' shrieks down to the street, echoing off the artificial canyon walls. In this urban context, you might think it's a car alarm, or the squeal of truck brakes. But it's the birds, mostly unseen on the roofs above you.



I was editing this video at my desk at The Corporation. Admittedly, I should have been filing reports. I look up. Hovering over my cubicle wall was Krump's long, weathered face.

"What the hell is that?" Krump asked.

Um, birds? I told him about Davenport, the birds, etc.

Krump smiled at my naivete. "Those aren't birds. Those are rhesus monkeys."

Sorry?

Krump slid into the chair in front of my desk. "Play it again." I did. "That sound is the rhesus monkey mating call. I'll never forget it." Krump parroted the sound perfectly. Krump used to be The Corporation's liaison in Southeast Asia. For 20 years, he lived in Nepal. Today, he's our division's go-to guy about manufacturing, tariffs, and labor law all over the world.

"In Kathmandu, see, rhesus monkeys are sacred -- they build temples for them over there. They've overrun the whole goddam country. A total nuisance. If you're eating outside, they'll snatch the food right out of you hands. I've seen it. Leave something shiny on the seat of your car? They'll take a rock, break the window, and steal it. I came home once and there were six of them, all adult males, going through my fridge. They saw me and just went nuts. I fought them with my bare hands for nearly an hour -- ended up stabbing one. Killed it. You try dumping the corpse of a monkey in a city where they're sacred. I damn near got myself deported." Krump's stories are always kind of outrageous, but I don't know why he would lie to someone in my position. His eyes were shiny with nostalgia.

Krump tapped the side of my monitor. "See, all over America there are feral colonies of monkeys. They escape from zoos, or from nutjobs who want to keep them as pets. Think they're cute. Most of them are from research labs. Now, labs like the rhesus monkey because their blood is so similar to ours. The first astronauts were rhesus monkeys, did you know that? So what you have there are rhesus monkeys, a colony of them. My guess is they've broken into one of those office buildings and are holing up in the ductwork."



So there you go, monkeys or birds, you be the judge.