I have a reputation with the crows in my neighbourhood.
At least, I like to think I do.
Whenever I go on a walk, I greet them like old friends. βGood morning,β Iβll say to the one perched on the traffic sign. βYouβre looking particularly glossy today,β Iβll tell another as it struts across the sidewalk like it owns the place (which, honestly, it probably does).
They answer back, of course. Loudly. Dramatically. As if theyβre correcting my grammar or gossiping about the pigeons down the block. Sometimes one will fly overhead and caw right on cue, and I canβt help but feel like Iβve been acknowledged by the council.
In my imagination, theyβre keeping a file on me. Human who talks. Walks slowly. Seems harmless. Might offer crumbs someday.
I narrate my route to them, comment on the clouds, and occasionally ask important questions like, βSo, whatβs the crow news today?β They never give a straight answer, but the conversation flows anyway, carried by wingbeats and echoes.
It turns an ordinary walk into something slightly magical β a stroll through a world where the birds are characters, the street is a stage, and Iβm just another creature passing through, chatting with the locals.
