Crowing About

Crow in Bare Tree

I have a puppet crow named Ravinia that perches on the spindle of an old platform rocker in my workroom. There are also crows on the mantel: one with real feathers from Friendship, Maine; one little woolly one that’s wearing a shawl; and two small ones in a nest that I found at a yard sale. I often ask for their opinions on such things as remodeling and matters of the heart, and they always give sound advice.

Ravinia is also the patron saint of my writing workshops, where she lands on a candlestick in the middle of the table, in the middle of the papers and the pens, the beating hearts, the minds boiling over. It sends her…all this energy…to a sort of corvine Elysian Fields where there are shiny things, secrets, wing chairs, and much to crow about. I like to think that the writers are transported there too.

Most of my friends know that the crow is my favorite bird, and they often accuse me of dressing like one (it is true that my closet is a melange of black, and it is true that my maternal grandmother looked quite crow-ish). They are the most marvelous of birds: they take care of each other; they’re resourceful; they’re great at clean-up; they’re majestically beautiful walking across snow; they can perch at the very top of a pine with grace and aplomb; they’re smart enough to gather when the four o’clocks descend and collaborate about a nice, safe, warm place to sleep.

It’s true that the crow can practice a bit of thievery now and then, and apparently the Greeks thought the crow a bit gossipy. There’s other dark stuff, of course, but most of those rumors were spread in the Middle Ages, when darkness prevailed. For the most part, the crow is sacred, a guide and a protector. I know that when I look up and see a smattering of them hanging out together in neighboring trees, chatting away about the weather and the best spot for lunch, I feel deeply reassured.

All’s well. Just caws for delight.