To Sing a Common Poem

I have never cared much for Mankind. Some of my people like their plantings and their road killings, their garbage, but my memory tells me that crows found food aplenty without their help. How can we feel the pride of our species, with these ones who revile us, insult and attack us, call the very poems we sing a “croak” or a “squawk”? Their food is poison, their farmers are killers of my people; I stay far to the north when I am able, away from their settlements.

But as fall comes, Equinox approaches, and the far north becomes frozen and hostile even for one accustomed to hardship. My southward migration begins early. The Equinox Gathering comes miles south of my summer lands, and I must travel, gathering my people to one of Mankind’s parks as I go. I am a Queen; we are democratic in our decision making, but it is up to the Queen to reckon the length of the days, and to announce the time and place of Gathering to all. At the Gathering we sing our poems of migration; alliances are formed. We sing our map, so that lands are never made to carry more of our kind than they can support; the land needs winter rest, and the Crowfolk need food.

The park we chose was atop large hill, forested with oaks on the slopes, but with a circle of sunlit grassland at the top, and a few tables. Oddly, though Mankind keeps parklands, the Manfolk ignore them more often than not. The place of this Gathering, we thought, would be empty of their disturbing presence. Our group memory and our poems would fill the hillside. But what actually occurred was far different.

The Crowfolk arrived one by one, calling their greetings to one another from the tops of the oaks. Those of us who came first chased away a pair of Cooper’s hawks, and sent the squirrels and groundsquirrels to take cover in the inner parts of the trees. Smaller birds took wing. The Gathering grew to its full number, every oak bearing Crowfolk. The many trees in the circle opened to the glorying of our voices.

But as we gathered, several Manfolk began to make their way up the hill. In ones and twos, carrying baskets, noisy with the sounds of their odd language. We quieted to watch them arrive, waiting to see what would happen before commencing the singing of our poems. We could see that their baskets contained food, and some of our young began to express excitement. Our elders shushed them, but the Manfolk had noticed our presence. They cast their looks up into the trees, more nervous than hostile for the time being.

After some quiet discussion among us, we decided to commence our Gathering and ignore them. After all, the power of our group’s mind, focused on the species memory and our common purpose, could easily outmatch the wandering, disorganized ramblings of their thoughts and babbling. So we began our Gathering, with the singing of the Poem of Greeting and the Poem of Names.

I kept one eye to the ground, looking out for trouble, and it was not long before they began to get angry. At first they just yelled at us, trying perhaps to shout us down. When this was ineffective, they shook their fists at us, as if they could frighten us with their hands. Then, predictably, the throwing of rocks started. It seemed to me that everyone below was shouting, waving arms, and throwing things into the trees. We kept singing, ignoring them as best we could.

It turned out, however, that a few were not taking part in the mob’s anger. After a time, I saw a female of Mankind climb onto one of the tables and call to the others. The mob stopped their throwing and squabbling. Two others seemed to be of the same mind as her, and they talked to the Manfolk. Had they decided to go, to leave us in peace? I hoped so.

Again, however, I was hasty to predict their species’ behavior. Instead of moving away, they brought their bodies together into a rough circle. Next they started to sing.

I do not understand the poems of Mankind. I have no knowledge of their words. The purpose of any singing is, however, accessible to the mind of Crowkind. And this singing seemed to bear a common purpose to ours – an acknowledgment of the changing of the season, gratefulness for the bounty of the land, and joy. Their song was good.

They began to dance as they sang, around the circle. Something in the sight of this awakened a memory in me, and in many of my people. This was not a memory of something we had experienced in this life; rather, it was the group memory of our ancestors, a seeing into our species’ past. We remembered also the movements of our ancestors.

Almost as one we arose from the treetops, and began the flying Dance of the Crows. As they danced on the grass, we danced above the treetops ringing the grass, so that the two circles moved in concert, the two species sang in concert. Then, as our songs and dances came to an end, the Manfolk stood or sat, and we regained our perches in the tops of the oaks. They looked toward us, hands shielding their eyes from the sun, with the strange grimaces that indicate happiness in their species. And we looked down at them, happy that they had somehow resurrected a group memory of their own that we had believed lost. Perhaps they believed this occurrence to be some kind of a miracle. If only the present race of Mankind realized what their older races knew; if only they realized how common such things may be.

They had their feasting and thanksgiving, and we finished our business. When they left, the tables were piled high with their gifts to us.



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