I don’t know whether it is the emergence of spring, but the crows seem a bold bunch this week. As I arrived to see the Black Bloc today, I was greeted by the first one that spotted me, skipping towards me with their wings outstretched like a feathery, cursed toddler.
This isn’t usual for this group, though I have noticed them inching slowly more forward in recent weeks. Still, the closest they usually come is about a metre at the very, very most and even that is only fleeting. I’m perfectly happy with this.
Earlier in the week, Ebeneezer, a crow I have known for about a year and a half who has always kept their distance suddenly swooped down behind me. There was a moment where I froze in exhilaration as I thought he was about to land on my shoulder, before he perched on the parking meter next to me and waited patiently for a treat.
People ask me how long I think it will take before I can hand feed them, and I always tell them the same thing. I’m not attempting to do that. The real magic I have found since meeting the crows is how they rewild me, and connect me back to nature. I have no desire to domesticate or tame them to my world because frankly I prefer theirs. Because of them I notice forests and miniature ecosystems when I am walking through the town. The ancient trees in the churchyard that they use to nest, the soft protective mosses adorning the edges of the fountain that are pulled out to provide a mattress for frog mouthed hatchlings.
Crows do certainly have the ability to not only recognise, but also assess people on an individual basis. They will get closer to me- someone they have learned does not try to harm them and who they associate with food- than they do other people they encounter on the green. For example, I’ve noticed the Black Bloc tend to stay away from those holding leads in particular, who they understand will probably have a dog or two who likes to chase them. But for me, that isn’t a good enough excuse to try and encourage them, no matter how much it would thrill me.
Our wildlife has already been forced enough to adapt to our world. Crows are one of the species that has done this particularly well in urban areas and I don’t wish to drag them into it more. I always want them to have a wary suspicion of humans even if that is to include me. Having even just a little bit of trust from them is an absolute gift, and it has taken a long time to earn it, by being attentive as they communicate what makes them feel safe and what doesn’t (it took me far, far longer than it should of for it to click they don’t like being looked directly at for a long period of time). We leave offerings for each other. Me, my lockdown weight in an assortment of edible treats for them to enjoy, and them their company and ancient wisdom which they drip feed to me in clicks, blinks, rattles and very, very occasionally, a gift.
Trust can be lost too. Since the pandemic stopped me being able to travel to my office, I have no idea how I will be received by the Graveyard Shift and Crowpotkin and Esme once I return, whether they will still know me and even if all of them will still be there. While I have always been careful to ensure that none of them rely on humans for food, it hasn’t stopped me worrying about them for an entire year, despite how perfectly capable and adaptable I know them to be.
My bio picture is literally of a wild, young crow sat on my arm, as living around a petting zoo, they had lost their fear of humans who they saw as walking vending machines, and pigeons in my very touristy home town will also happily jump onto people’s hands if some duck food is offered to them. There will always be variations among species and individual animals about how curious they will get about us depending on their experience, environment and access to food. But for me, I will always treat each interaction as a gift, no matter how distant, and will never push for more than they choose to give freely.
an-anarchy-of-crows.com 