Liminal Coastal Crows

A couple of weeks ago we went to the coast.  There were what I thought were ravens there, but looking more closely at the photos later, I think they are actually crows.

Crows and raptors don't get along.  Crows will mob raptors in an attempt to drive them away.  It's possible raptors raid crows' nests or something that makes the crows mad.  Actually, even raptors don't always get along with each other.   I suppose this is similar to being friends with goths and with jocks--you'd like to invite them all to a big, fun party, but it's going to be like King Arthur trying to hold the alliance of the Round Table together between the bickering Lord of the North and the Lords of the South.  And then just when you think everyone's going to get along,  a peacock appears.



A trinity of crows bathed in a stream.  I've seen other juncos, owls, ducks, eagles, geese, jays and sparrows bathing, but never crows.    Thinking about it more, what was surprising about the situation was that a medium sized bird, that wasn't a duck, stood in a substantial stream of flowing water, which produced a wake as if it were swimming.  I'd expect it to sharpen its beak on a branch or hunt for bread crumbs or shiny earrings.



Mark will probably twit me for trying to read a meaning into it--"what do we know; we're just birds taking a bath"-- but their appearance seemed like a a mummer's pageant.   Okay, also, at the time, while I appreciated the crows, I was focused on getting good photographs of them to share.

Maybe the sense of portents in these photos comes from the fact that there were three crows;  stories start with threes:  three daughters, three billy goats, three crows.  Some of my more magical dreams start with crossing a stream--and watching from across a stream as three crows bathe sounds like the liminal beginning of a fairy tale.



Maybe it was the conjunction of shadow, air, and water; signifying the secret place where intellect and intuition inform each other.








Maybe it was the reflection of winged darkness in the middle of the day.








Maybe it was the milky, cataract dot of the crow's eye--the nictitating membrane, perhaps--giving the black bird the impression of blindness as it peered into the flowing water.







Perhaps it was the blind black crow's baptism before flight.











The other crows flew away, too, leaving me standing on the other shore with my camera.

It's a poem.  It's a mystery.

Writing this, I feel like I need to make a tarot deck with crows in it.