Corvid Curiosity (#131)
Spooky Science is an annual feature at Campfire Notebook that examines all manner of creepy curiosities in the world of science and SciArt. To check out the previous years’ features, check out the listing at the bottom of the post.
A gust of wind encourages me to pick up the pace.
I start most mornings before work like this: Moving through the shadowy streets, past the sleeping, beating hearts of homes. Sometimes I’m sporting headphones; other times with nature as my soundtrack. Regardless, the steps mimic a commute now lost to me - and while that was a time suck on the grandest scale, it could also be a clarifying way to start the day before settling into the tasks at hand.
This morning was like all those others, albeit more noticeably, fashionably late - thanks to September’s prism effect, bending the intense summer sun to angle lower in the sky. As it struggles to rise and announce the new day, other elements rush to fill in the spaces. The wind rattles the full yet yellowing foliage, lacing the air with a tang that begs for a light jacket or a thin hat. A sharpness, that chills and reminds the trees to begin the process of letting go.
This morning, I was nearly finished my “commute” through the quiet side streets by the high school, rounding the corner to the main road. Houses still line this former single-lane highway, but larger structures also take up space: an ice rink, a queer-positive church, a bus stop, a very anti-queer church, an elementary school. No doubt there, the students would soon be turning to seasonal art projects, dutifully cutting out black construction paper bats and spiders. These are the animal sigils of the hallowed eve - beasts that only live in the shadows and emerge from the darkness in fluttery, unpredictable ways.
But there are others, as I soon learned.
As the space around me opened up to this main road, the wind rushed in to fill the space with fresh air - and also leaves and bits of paper from a nearby pile of litter an-
And then I felt it.
THWAP.
I stop my audiobook and reach my hand to the right side of my head. It didn’t hurt, and there were no cuts, but there had been pressure, firm, yet strangely soft.
I whip my head around to see what hit me in the head. Was this an errant food item lobbed at me? A colleague was on the receiving end of such an assault a few months ago - when, leaving a restaurant, a car whizzed past us and hurled a McDonald’s cheeseburger at her. (The distinctive parfum of onions and pickles stayed with her the entire drive home, despite having wiped off the attack. To this day, we still have no idea what prompted the drive-by burgering.)
No, my head is clear of condiments. I look down; there’s no trash on the ground that could have been blown into me.
I look up and turn to the left, and that’s when I spy my assailant: A crow, flying dazedly in a dotted line, towards a nearby fir tree where several others waited.
Did the gust of wind just blow a crow off course into my face?
With unease, it settles onto a branch near their colleagues, and looks at me.
Or was it on purpose?
Lest you think I’m being melodramatic, studies demonstrate the superior intelligence of crows and their corvid cousins: Their abilities to use tools or how to nest mental concepts within another concept - previously thought of as a human feature alone.1
So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that science has also demonstrated that crows can create and hold grudges for a long time.
A team of researchers at the University of Washington ran an experiment where they captured American Crows in nets while wearing a caveman mask, then released them back onto campus. When the researchers later walked across campus wearing the same mask, the crows scolded and dive-bombed them. More than 10 years after capturing just seven crows, more than half of the crows on campus still raised the alarm at the sight of a caveman mask.2
No wonder a collective of crows is called a murder.
Nonetheless, I’m perplexed. Had I done something to cross this crow? Had it sat outside my bedroom window and announced its presence one too many summer dawn mornings? Or pilfered the bird seed at my feeders, raising my ire? It did come from the anti-queer church, and I recently had hoisted a pride flag outside my home. Was this crow sympathetic to their rhetoric, and dispatched to do their bidding?
I’m no closer to an answer a month later than I was that day on the sidewalk. Maybe it was just a gust of wind and we were both innocent victims of nature’s emotions that day. Nonetheless, I’ve since taken care to tread lightly near my feathered friends as I walk the quiet, dark streets of my town.
And just in case - if you’re reading this, crow, let’s make amends, eh?
Spooky Science Library
2022
Fire extinguisher bombs | Body hacking | The case of Little Albert | Old pharmacy recipes
2023
Healing soups | Electroshock therapy | Disease make-up | Blood as art
2024
The fungus among us | The brain-body stress link |
Admittedly, this study was met with a fair amount of dispute / academic bun fighting by ornithologists.
Fritts, R. (2021, August.) 10 Fun Facts about the American Crow. Audobon Magazine.
I, too, was dive-bombed by a crow. I was barely a teenager, and the crow wanted my hat. Nice story again, Bryn!
Oh Bryn, I loved this! Such clever characters, aren't they? I find myself suspicious of the motives of crows and magpies - they freak me out a little - but I love to watch the antics of our cheeky jackdaws. They're the smaller cousins of crows and seem almost playful in their interactions with each other. 'Our' very tame one, Jacko - bullied by his own kind because his white feathers made him different - adopted us as friends, and he (or she) was such a delight. He stopped visiting us back in the summer, though, and I miss him. 😢
Encounters like this - yours with the crow, mine with Jacko - seem to leave their mark. I wonder if such memories linger because we engage in a deeper way with the Corvid family - and their intelligence - than with other birds. 🤔
Have you ever read 'Penguin Bloom'? It's about the influence of a baby magpie on the family who had rescued her. Beautiful.