When I was a kid I questioned God’s existence, and asked my mother about it. Always a woman too tired for words, she reflected, and said, as if trying to convince herself, “…even the Big Bang had to start somewhere.” By blogging these books, bit by bit, they’ll get done. A dream has to start somewhere, where it ends, no one knows.
My Friend Blue
In the spring of 2018 I was getting my morning coffee, and raising the blind to look out the kitchen window, froze, coffee cup suspended, as two crows fell out of the sky, pursued by half a dozen others. One of the two chased was injured, and the mobs target; its right leg mangled, and most of its tail feathers missing.
Although I would come to know that wasn’t what it was, at the time, horrified, I thought I was watching an actual murder of crows unfold before my unlucky eyes.
Wide-beaked and panting, the larger one wasn’t given any chances to regroup by other crows, and the other, presumably his mate, could only screech her anguish and flap out of range of the fury.
The injured crow made it to my garden, crashing into the Blue Bells and Forget me Nots, and gaining a few precious moments to catch his breath. At that point, I was at the door, not sure what to do, but I had to do something, and maybe save the bird somehow. With this in mind, I grabbed a hoodie off a hook, in case I got a chance to throw it over him, and see if ARC could help him later.
But as I stepped out, the six furious chasers startled and took off, to land on the eaves, looking at me malevolently, like McCaffery dragons interrupted during a kill. Their damaged target panted off to my left, his partner hopping in closer, ready to battle me I suppose, they rested then took off again, the mob literally on their tails.
I never expected to see them again, but one day about two weeks later, the couple reappeared on the eaves across from me. No gang with them, and the most surprising thing of all, the larger bird’s leg was clean, and neatly amputated at the hock.
My breakfast boiled eggs were immediately tossed out the door to them, they pounced, spearing the white flesh with their beaks like deft chopsticks , and catching my heart at the same moment, a mutual appreciation was born that would one day mature into friendship.
I named the bigger one Blue, and male, and the smaller one Belle, for the flowers Blue had crawled into that day he’d been escaping.
And from that day on my loneliness lifted, never to return, it had been another long few years, but knowing this brave little bird was to change all that.
And on that day, a mission was born, I would fortify my new friend’s health. High protein meals saw friends donate money for vitamins drops and royal jelly, and me hunting for dew worms, pulling them from the garden to toss to them both to slurp up, I got in hulled sunflower seeds, meal worms, and boiled free-run eggs in bulk.
Why the crows were attacking Blue I’ll never know, it’s territorial apparently. And what attacked him initially is a mystery, but the couple were nesting, so maybe by one of our eagles, Blue hurt defending their babies.
The life of a bird is fleeting and fragile.
There’s so much we don’t know about the inner workings of these and other birds socially.
Corvids have memories like humans do, but unlike us, they use them for practical reasons, and otherwise live fully in the moment.
I’ve been reminded time and time again, just by watching my crows, there’s nothing gained from worrying and wallowing.
And when Blue’s gone, his children will know me because he will make sure they do. Something of me will live on in him. Keep your eyes peeled, little friend, and give my love to Belle