Flock Talk: Conversing with Crows
Priya Subberwal
It’s time for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center.
Caw! Caw! The croaking black bird peers at me from the wire fence. Its slick feathers glisten under the October sun like an oil spill, and I can’t help but see it as an omen, dark bird of dark weather, haunting me without helping it. Craw! I screech back, poorly. Caw! Caw! I do my best to match it – two croaks, around the same pitch, a second or two apart. It pauses, blinks. I cannot tell if it’s looking at me or not – beady black eyes peering into the entire sky on either side of its small shiny head. It croaks a bit more, so do I. Then it takes off into the bright autumn sky.
I like to talk to the crows, though I don’t know what we’re talking about. Researching the subject, I learned that they have over 250 different calls. Caws aside, crows will also croak, chuckle, rattle, and coo. Scientists have wondered at the meaning of these different calls for years, but, for the most part, we have no idea what they’re saying. Crows will also use a softer, gentler dialect when communicating with their close family members. Same, I think.
In Montana, crows live in the same place year-round. As brighter, lighter birds take leave for southern climates, these dark croakers remain, punctuation marks against the white winter. I’m grateful for their presence, their ability to fill the cold silence with a cacophony of rattles and clicks. I hope they know I’m a fan. If you annoy a crow, they can hold a grudge, memorizing your face, car, schedule, and telling their friends about you. They don’t seem to mind my parroting, though we never speak for long. Sometimes, I’ll pass under a tree and the crows nearby will start calling. I grow self-conscious – are they talking about me? Sometimes, my response sends them flying in a stroke of inky blackness. Sometimes, their replies almost sound human, which, it turns out, may be on purpose, as crows and ravens are known to mimic human speech. It turns out we’ve been trying to talk to each other.
They’re clever and adaptable – that's how they manage through the long, cold winters. They find sustenance where they can, dropping nuts on concrete to crack them and working together to distract dogs away from their meals. They’re excellent at being in community. This is something I’d like to learn from them, as I have been trying to have fewer meals alone. As the skies turn grey and the sun swings away from us, humans must adapt to winter as well. I’ve taken to winter squash soups, laden with root vegetables and vitamin D to stave off the seasonal sadness. As I shake squash seeds, onion skins, and pumpkin rinds into the outdoor compost bin, and a nearby murder eyes me suspiciously, I wonder if they enjoy these autumn pickings as much as I do. If their little bodies also respond well to the nutrients stored in these rooty wonders. As I walk away, the small flock descends upon the rotting pile, pecking at orange carcasses in a communal feast. They call over nearby birds to join in the plunder. I decide to mirror them again and pull out my phone – using my very own human call – and invite some friends over to eat.
Today’s Field Note was written in the Environmental Writing class at the University of Montana. I’m Priya Subberwal for Field Notes, brought to you by the Montana Natural History Center, providing natural history education for schools and the public throughout Montana. For information on upcoming programs and events at the Center, call 406.327.0405 or visit our website at MontanaNaturalist.org.
