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flight

Why Are The Crows Again On The Crow Tree?

Four houses down the hill, on my side of the street, a HUGE tree grows in a backyard. For many years it was a resting rook for flocks of crows on their daily migration.


The crows would leave the other side of the harbour around dusk. They would fly to their evening rookery on a university campus on this side of the harbour. I’d guess 5 miles (8.04672 kilometers) – as the crow flies. They would return between seven and nine the next morning, making another stop in The Crow Tree.
I estimate there were around two hundred crows, taking their ease for twenty minutes or so. There was some flying and fluttering around The Crow Tree, but generally they settled and stayed on the branches.

Other birds steered clear.

Then, about three years ago the university, which was the crows’ destination, decided to construct some additional buildings. This meant the removal of trees. Lack of trees meant that the crows would have to go elsewhere. So much for higher learning.

And, indeed, over the months, the crows visiting The Crow Tree diminished, and eventually stopped. I researched the situation and found out that “my” crows were just one cohort of a murder that could reach two thousand. And I found out that not all the crows stopped using the university for their evening roost. There were obviously enough trees for some of them.

But “my” crows stopped.

That is, until two weeks ago.

One morning, around 70 – 100 crows settled into The Crow Tree. It was a great surprise. They stayed an hour or so. With such few numbers, they were neither raucous nor flighty.  They murmured among themselves, but I could not decipher what they were talking about. And then they went on their way. They did not make a return evening flight, and I have not seen them since.

Was it some sort of reunion?


DE

One Flew Over The Crow Tree

For years and years a massive Murder of Crows used to fly over my house on their way to their nightly roost. They would fly across the harbour, and head for a copse of trees at a university a few miles away. They would often (or some of them) alight in a huge tree two houses down the street. There could be two hundred, and they would fill the tree, cawing and rustling and flying around. Then, in twenty minutes or so, they would be on their way.

Alas, the university cut down that copse of trees for the construction of some buildings. The crows no longer make their journey. I do not know where they now roost.

However, one recent morning, I saw a crow at The Crow Tree

It hovered and hovered and hovered and hovered over The Crow Tree. I rarely ever see crows hover. Then it grabbed right on to the tallest piece of a branch (already denuded of leaves) and held on.

It swayed and swayed and swayed back and forth in the wind, sometimes using its wings for balance. It stayed so long that I was able to get my binoculars to watch (and totally confirm it was a crow). It was.

The crow put me in mind of a cowboy attempting to stay on the back of a bucking horse. Whoo-heee!! I imagined it saying. 

All told, it clung to the branch for a minute. Then it let go, flew up, and away.

I had not seen a crow on The Crow Tree for over a year. There are still local crows, in twos and tens, on the ground and in the trees. But not the massive flock that would (I assume) take a wee rest during their evening passage. I do miss their passage from east to west, spooky though it was.

DE

Kafka Plans An Escape From His Life

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

############################

19 June 1917

           I arrived here tonight far later than usual. I had been on a day trip for the Institute, dealing with a court case for a few hours. I was in the station at the furthest reaches of Prague, waiting for the last train to bring me downtown. A taxi would have been more efficient, but I found myself in no hurry. I walked around the station, and found myself staring at the Departures List. All those places, with many trains still passing into the night. Bern. Copenhagen. Florence.

     I had a large amount of the Institute’s money with me (I had won our case), and all my travel documents in order – the war can be circumvented by bureaucrats. I think it was just having all that money which gave rise to such ideas. I realized that, with the right explanations, even London was possible. If I so desired. I had it all arranged in my head. The official letter I would send to Max, before I left the empire, authorizing him to pay back the Institute from my bank account. I had even figured – accurately – the interest to add for each day up until next Monday. And I knew I could trust him to tidy up my other business matters – my apartment, and this tiny house.

     I would tell him to destroy all my manuscripts – he could use this stove. Other letters I could write from other places – to Ottla, to F., to my parents. I thought that I might even be able to eventually make my way to Palestine. That would meet with Max’s approval.

And the trains kept departing before my eyes, one, and another, and another. They were not even crowded, the hour was so late.

And then, there was my train. Back into Prague.

I was the last one on.

The Monarch Of The Lighthouse

I try to hoist the Union Jack

By sunrise,

And lower it by sunset.

I am not always faithful

To the former.

This morning, I was slow to the mark.

The sun was fully risen

In the East.

The colours caught the sun

Part way up the mast.

However, my chagrin was overtaken

By the antics of my cat/kitten,

Black as the disappeared night

With one white mitten.

I call him Paw.

So I went over to see

What was what.

He was huddled over

A folded Monarch butterfly,

Getting warmth from

The flag stones,

And much the worse

For wear.

It stood firm on its feet,

And stayed upright when the wind

Ruffled its wings.

Paw sniffed around, but kept

A respectful distance.

The smell of Death,

I suppose.

Still,

That Monarch has lasted out

The day,

And might still be present

When It is time to

Lower the flag

For the night.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

Birds Of A Feather / Loons Of The Water

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The surface of the lake is so smooth, the flow of the differing currents are clearly seen as shimmering streaks reflecting the sunshine.

Breaking through these jewelled bands, like shadows over unrecognized borders, are three loons. Two black-capped Common and one red-throated.  They stray apart, become lost in shafts of sparkling water, and as unexpectedly re-appear further along the shore.

The red-throated loon keeps a slight distance from the other two. Usually, it is the first to dive. Dive and disappear so cleanly there is only the barest ripple to betray it.

The other two then quickly go without a sound, a liquid dive that leaves the water empty, save for the dancing sunshine.

And then a head.

And then two more bodies break the surface, far from where they went under. They move with an ease that makes them seem part of the water.

One of them wallows slightly on its side, then reaches far down its breast to preen. After a few nibbles, it rights itself and unhurriedly joins its companions.

They become a distant trio of sleek shapes, and disappear in the haze of horizon and glinting sun.

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