The Birds

“The Crow commands, the captive must obey.” George R.R. Martin

It all started two weeks ago, as I headed out on one of my early morning walks. The world was lazily awakening from its winter slumber and the moist, spring air was rich with petrichor and possibilities. As I crossed the street and entered the park, on my way to the river, a crow menaced me, loudly cawing and swooping at my head.

Just to be clear, I LOVE crows. Talk to them. Feed them. They’re indifferent to my existence of course but put up with me for the snacks. And I understand that they get territorial like this when they’re nesting. Not a big deal, just give them some space. But this one hates me. As he dive bombs me, I can feel the rush of air off his wings as he repeatedly grazes my head, screaming bloody murder in my ear.

Under attack, I get angry and do the thing I’ll later come to regret. In riposte, I clap my hands at the crow. Loudly. Repeatedly. The crow is momentarily shocked by my aggression but quickly recovers and calls in reinforcements.

Now I have no less than 10 crows scolding me loudly and dive bombing me. With one hand covering my head, I try to stay calm as I frantically push the traffic light. But this cacophony of crows aren’t stopping just because I’m out of the park and away from their nest. No, they chase me clean across the highway. People safe in their cars watch in wonder as I flee into the woods. Cowering in the underbrush I begin to wonder if I’ll ever be able to return. Or will I have to start a new life elsewhere?

And ever since, as soon as I emerge from my home, the crows start up with their loud cawing and dive bombing. The fact that they remember me is not surprising given their infamous memories. It’s said they can remember a human face associated with distress for up to 5 years and they will warn their friends about you.

Although, I’m pretty sure it goes well beyond that. The crows have probably hired a sketch artist and put up wanted posters with my likeness. They’ve offering 1 marble, two nails and nut for any leads as to my identity. Avaricious bastards. They’ve probably sculpted a bust of me (likely from an overhead view) and now see my face on the full moon and cry out in pareidoliac distress. I am their fixation.

At first I wondered how to make the crows like me again. Now I’d just settle for getting them to leave me alone. I’ve tried being calm and ignoring them. I’ve tried wearing different hats. I’ve even tried out various walks. All to no effect. Well, no effect on the crow’s behaviour; I’m pretty sure my neighbours are wondering about me.

That’s when I decided I was done. I’m going on the offensive. I’ve started carrying fake crows that I swing about wildly. I’m climbing trees and threatening to steal babies from their nests. I’ve become the spectre they fear. The police are watching me now. They’ve hired a sketch artist too. Who, might I say, produced a much better likeness of me than the crows. But then again, cops can pay in more than shiny objects and stolen fries.

I’m on the lam.