There are many ways to start a morning.
Some people stretch.
Some meditate.
Some check the news and ruin their own day before coffee.
I, however, am briefed by crows.
They arrive like small, feathered middle managers. Black suits. Sharp eyes. Mild disappointment already loaded in their posture. They sit on the fence and stare at my window as if I owe them a report.
And I do.
The first one lands. Letβs call him Brian. Not because he looks like a Brian. He doesnβt. He looks like a tax auditor with wings. But Brian feels right.
Brian: Caw.
Me, through the glass: βYes. I am awake.β
Brian: Caw caw.
Translation: We noticed you were up later than usual. Productivity concerns.
Another crow lands. Slightly smaller. Definitely HR.
Crow #2: Caw.
Translation: Weβve reviewed your performance this week. Acceptable crumb output. However, eye contact has been inconsistent.
I step outside with my coffee.
They all go silent.
This is not respect.
This is documentation.
They tilt their heads at me like tiny goth therapists.
One of them hops closer and gives me a long look. The kind of look that says, Explain yourself.
So I do.
βI had things to think about,β I tell them.
They blink slowly. Which in crow language means, We also think. We just donβt narrate it dramatically.
Now hereβs the part people donβt understand about crows. They are not loud.
They are strategic.
When I am home, they talk to me. Calmly. Controlled. Civilized.
When I leave?
They scream.
I have heard it from down the road. Absolute chaos.
CAW CAW CAW.
Translation: WHERE IS THE TALL ONE?
Itβs flattering, in a very unhinged way.
Sometimes I test them.
I stay inside longer than usual. The fence fills up.
One paces.
One looks directly at my window.
One flies up to the roof like heβs checking for alternative entrances.
They are not worried.
They are auditing.
Eventually I step out.
Collective silence.
One soft caw.
Translation: We knew youβd return. Your survival instincts are adequate.
We spend time together like this. I narrate their meetings in my head. They critique my pacing. I drink coffee. They judge the cup.
Once, I tried ignoring them.
That was a mistake.
They did not yell.
They gathered.
Five of them. All in a row. Facing my house.
Silent.
If birds could fold their wings in disappointment, they would have.
I went outside immediately.
There are rules here. I am unclear on them, but they exist.
The funniest part is how serious they look. Entirely black. No visible smile. No warmth. Just dark, shiny feathers and the vibe of ancient forest lawyers.
But then one will hop sideways for no reason.
Or drop a twig.
Or get startled by absolutely nothing.
And I remember: they are little chaos spirits in formalwear.
I respect that.
I suspect they think I am the strange one. The tall, featherless crow who forgets how to fly and spends too much time staring at rectangles.
They are not wrong.
Every now and then, one will sit closer than usual. Quiet. No sound. Just presence.
It feels less like inspection and more like company.
We do not speak about it.
That would ruin it.
So tomorrow morning, they will arrive again.
Brian will clear his throat.
HR will monitor eye contact.
I will step outside with my coffee like a man reporting to upper management.
And the Crow Council will begin another day of highly professional nonsense.
It is the healthiest relationship I have.
