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Yesterday, I made my way back from preparing lunch for Demeter. I was within a few yards of our building, when I heard the familiar raucous call of a crow in springtime. My heart sank.
This happens most years, in varying intensity. It's nesting time for the black critters, and they become convinced that passersby are after their young 'uns. This usually takes the form of threatening swoops. I've had the occasional one graze the top of my head. I've found the best defence is proceeding calmly, eyes front, which takes a tad of self-discipline as one hears the loud approaching CAW.
Having seen Hitchcock films doesn't help. (Incidentally, years ago, I spent a week in the Bodega Schoolhouse, where that famous scene was filmed. Lots of redwing blackbirds. No crows.)
Last spring was our first in this building, and we learned that corvid thuggery was a time-honoured neighbourhood event; the ancient trees lining the lawn fronting our apartment contain at least one crow's nest every year. The angry birds went mainly after joggers and dog-walkers, and being neither, we didn't worry unduly about it.
I should have known this year would be different.
As early as April, I was mildly startled when, walking up the pathway to the entrance, a crow silently glided to the ground over my left shoulder, brushing me with its feathers. A week ago, I returned home at sunset and a full block away from home, heard harsh foreshadowing squawkings from the foliage that curves over the sidewalk.
Which brings us to yesterday.
As I approached the driveway, I realized I was dealing with one belligerent customer. After a couple of charges, he (she?) swooped from behind with a strident cry out of hell, striking me on the area just above the space between my shoulder blades and just below the nape of my neck: "CAW --- thunk"
Heading for the entrance seemed a bad idea, so I veered into the parking lot, protesting, "I'm not after your babies!" The fowl refused to listen to reason.
CAW --- thunk....CAW --- thunk
It hit me twice more, a total of five times in precisely the same place, before I ducked under the over-hang that protects the cars parked next to the wall. It didn't hurt; it didn't even knock me off balance. It felt something like being struck with the flat side of a broom.
Shaken, I reached the side door unmolested, and forgetting to put on my mask, stumbled into the shelter of the stairwell.
Since then, I've been re-routing my departures and arrivals out the lower entrance at the south end of the building, feeling somewhat like a schoolchild scuttling through side-streets in hope of evading a dreaded bully.
The trouble is, there's a sentinel crow on this quiet backstreet, as well. I keep my eyes front, and walk briskly, but calmly, feeling those beady bird eyes following me.
I resist the temptation to sing, even under my breath: Risselty rossety/Hey bombosity/Knickety knockety/Retrical quality/Willaby wallaby/ Now-now-now....
Occasionally, he coasts through the air from across the street and emits one loud CAW.
I manage not to jump out of my skin. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.
It's going to be a long month.
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