Filed under: the wagga blagga
Tuesday October 24th
The crow’s call is “Daaa-aaa-aaad, daaa-aaa-aaad”.
For some reason (insomnia; diseluviation), this morning I find myself standing on Croaker Street just outside the blue fibro at the Hodson Avenue end and just after dawn. I hear the call, and turn to catch sight of a handsome black avian in the act, so it appears to me, of averting its gaze.
I continue north through Turvey Park.
A proof of human irrational insight is our occasional strong capacity to sense being watched. I spin around inelegantly: the crow (I assume it’s the same one) has maintained its four metre distance from me and I would swear has just, once more, dropped its eye to a piece of irrelevant turf.
Test: I cross Blamey Street.
Confirmation: so does the bird.
My glossy companion takes flight, and lands about ten metres north of me. My suspicions rise further: I once read that the best way to tail someone is from in front.
I turn right along Heydon, now sprinting towards the Botanical Gardens. An expensively shod fitness nut is trotting the other way, gives a misplaced collegial nod.
“The bird!” I hiss, like one of Macbeth’s desert witches.
“Yes, beautiful morning,” he replies. Idiot.
Ahead, the orange-tinged sky silhouettes a plain tree covered in what might be large, black fruit, or pods.
But as the chorus of “daaa-aaa-aaads” grows evermore insistent, these reveal themselves to be dozens of crows.
And there is momentary silence as they shuffle to allow one more to alight.