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Crows
I watched a crow cawing the other day in the office parking lot. The black bird looked lonely or mournful and I had a pang of sympathy. How often do you have sympathy for a crow? Not often I’d bet. Is it because they're black? Ubiquitous? Loud? Aggressive? Annoying? Feeling bad for a crow is like shedding a tear for a gull. Freakin’ gulls. Years ago, I was commuting with my wife in our little Civic. At the base of an overpass, the last overpass before home, I saw a small group of gulls in our lane. As we approached, we saw them fighting over a Domino’s box full of pizza. My wife started yelling and bracing for impact. I was driving only 35 mph on a city street. I had faith that the nasty survivor birds would get out of the way. I was wrong. The mild *thump* shocked me a little. I didn’t hear most of my wife’s tirade. All I could offer was a lame “I really thought they’d move in time.” I didn’t see any feathered carnage in the rearview mirror. Soon we parked at home and I steeled myself for the blood and gore. Only a tiny bit of white gull fluff wedged in the right parking light betrayed us. Now my wife trots out the story whenever she needs some color commentary on my character and conduct. All I can offer is a lame “I really thought they’d move in time.” Freakin’ gulls.