A Day in the Life of a Crow

The life a crow is a life which is centered on the observation of one’s surroundings, the adaptation to sudden environmental changes, and the parallel existence with our bald ape neighbours. I stand perched on a tree branch, observing these neighbours as they carry about with their daily activities. As usual, the short-haired bald ape was the first to leave the home, shortly after sunrise. He got into his mobile poison-emitter and drove off. Shortly afterwards, the long-haired bald ape and her offspring left the home and got into their second, larger mobile poison-emitter and they also drove off.

           Finally, they were gone and just in time for garbage day. I’m ashamed to admit that ever since Cora and I my decided to relocate to this bald ape colony, we’ve acquired a taste for the bald apes’ abundant and easily attainable refuse. Half-eaten breads, fruits, vegetable scraps, meats, and various other edible creations are readily available on a weekly basis. Granted, their waste food doesn’t compare to nature’s bounty of corn, pistachios, berries, pecans, beetles, moths, other birds’ eggs and nestlings, toad, frogs, snakes, mice, bats, and shrews. Moreover, the edible waste was often mixed in with their inedible, synthetically-created hard and soft wastes that seemed to litter the entire environment.

           As I feast on the bald ape waste, I sense that there is something strange in the air. It’s difficult to pinpoint whether it is a smell, a sound, or a feeling but something in the air is definitely out of the ordinary. I look up at the blue sky; there are no clouds as far as I can see and the sun is shining brightly in the east. There’s no incoming storm so it must be something else.

           My meal is interrupted by a loud noise from a large, mobile machine which carries a pair of bald apes and a whole lot of their community’s waste. Together, they go from home to home, picking up the trash bags and stuffing them into the back of the mobile machine which makes scary noises and spews smelly, black smoke. I tear off a piece of bread and fly back to my tree branch where I consume the bread while watching the smelly bald ape throw my would-be-feast into the back of the mobile machine.

           Perched up on my tree, I see a flock of ducks flying south—strange since the summer just started. Then, I see flocks of geese and then pelicans. For some inexplicable reason, I get the sudden urge to fly in that same direction as well.

           In a panic, I fly up to the nest where Cora is in the nest with our fledglings: Cole, Chase, and Camila. “There’s something weird going on,” Cora states.

           After I regurgitate food into the fledglings’ mouths, I reply, “I have no idea what it is but I’ve never felt anything like this before. Just to be safe, we should fly south like everyone else.”

           “Cole just learned to fly but Chase and Camila aren’t ready yet.”

           I look over at Chase and Camila who were late-hatchers and are much smaller than Cole. “Go with Cole,” I tell her. “I’ll follow behind with Chase and Camila.”

           I peck Cora and Cole on the beaks, tell them I love them, and wish them Godspeed. After they’re done their goodbyes, we watch them fly off into the southern horizon. I glance at Chase and Camila who stare at me, expectantly. “Okay, Chicks, time for a crash course—no pun intended—in the art of flying.”

           “I’m ready, Dad,” says Chase.

           “I’m scared,” says Camila.

           “I’m not going to lie to you, you’ll probably fall after your first, second, and third attempts,” I tell them. “That’s normal but I’ll be with you every step of the way. No matter what, relax your body and keep flapping your wings.” After that brief pep talk, I push them both out of the nest. They scream all the way down while flapping their wings and then bounce on the grass below.

           I fly above them. “Good start, but next time try to fly, not just fall,” I tell them. “Let’s keep moving.” I fly while they walk and jump.

           While this impromptu flying lesson goes on, bedlam has broken out in the streets—there are bald apes everywhere. Some are staring up at the sky, others are running, yelling, screaming, and moving about in their mobile boxes. I watch this chaos from atop a fence, while Chase and Camila observe from the grass. 

           “What are they staring at, Daddy?” Camila asks.

           I’m not sure what she’s talking about, until I look up in the direction that she is looking. There’s a little sun in the sky; it’s smaller than the real sun but it’s much bigger than a star—and, we can see this sun/star during the day? How strange!

           “Stay here, Chicks,” I tell them and leap into the sky, where it is also mayhem: pigeons are flying en masse; groups of geese are soaring in small V formations; seagulls are fluttering in loose flocks; and bats are just everywhere. I fly higher and higher until the bald ape colony is tiny and it’s hard to breathe and to fly. The sun/star looks like it’s getting brighter as I realize that it is rapidly approaching. A giant bald ape-made mechanical bird almost strikes me as it zooms by. I get caught in an air pocket, lose control, and then go into freefall. I regain control and then I glide back to the ground.

           Back on the ground, it is pandemonium. Not only are the bald apes going to and fro, deer herds are galloping through the colony, mice are scurrying out in the open, raccoons are waddling in lines of three or four, and hundreds of squirrels are running all over the place.

           Chase and Camila stand next to the fence where are l left them. They do their best to avoid being stepped on by the parade of animals.

“Dad, we’ve got to go,” cries Chase.

“Let’s go, Chicks,” I say. “Keep jumping until you get it.”

I fly over Chase and Camila as they continue their futile efforts to take to the air. Above, the sun/star continues getting larger, even as the real sun starts setting. As we reach the outskirts of the bald ape colony and enter the true wild, the fledglings start to run out of patience.

“Dad, I’m hungry,” Camila says.

“Dad, I’m tired,” Chase says. “Can we take a break?”

We’ve been on the move for hours and I’m starting to feel the effects of flight exhaustion. I land next to Chase and Camila. I lead them underneath a pine tree as we all look up at the sun/star which has lit up the evening sky in a sort of half daylight that doesn’t want the day to end.

“Why is that sun getting bigger?” Chase asks.

“It’s not a sun, Chase,” I tell him. “Whatever it is, it’s going to fall from the heavens and hit the ground.”

“Are we going to be okay?” Camila asks.

“I don’t know, Camila.”

We stare at the sun/star as its light fills the entire sky. Eventually, it becomes a fireball that disappears into the horizon. The sky goes from being brightly-lit to pitch black, with a speckling of stars. Suddenly, a huge fireball erupts from the horizon and shoots up into the air.

The ground rumbles and then, seconds later, a shockwave knocks us off our feet. We stand up and see that many trees and bald ape-made structures have toppled over. The rumbling has become an all-out earthquake as an orange glow fills the horizon. I realize that the orange glow is emanating from a towering wall of fire that is rapidly approaching.

I look at Camila and Chase. Their beaks are moving but I can’t hear them over the deafening noise. I hold them close as the wall of flames fills our entire field of view.

The life of a crow is not easy.