While poking around outside the cabin, I met the Squawkfield family.
Three things:
I’m only guessing they were an actual
family. I gave them the name Squawkfield. And I’m talking about a mess of
ravens.
Technically, a group of ravens can be
called a conspiracy, a treachery, a rave, an unkindness, or, more generically,
a flock. But for the purposes of this blog, we’re sticking with mess. It fits.
They were loud. And relentless. For
hours, they squawked from all directions—left, right, above, behind—almost
always high up in the firs and pines. It was like being surrounded by feathery
hecklers.
I soon surmised the ravens were
likely a mix of relatives and neighborhood
busybodies watching over and encouraging a batch of fledglings that had left
the nest and were taking wobbly test flights. Ravens are known to be
particularly boisterous when watching juveniles fledge.
This is a big time for these birds.
Perhaps they even fancy all that squawking is pleasant.
From my perspective, it’s mostly
annoying.
—Mitchell Hegman
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