Apparently, I've done something to stir the local ravens into action. Whenever I'm outside the house watering trees, splitting wood for the coming winter, or merely wandering around having conversations with the flowers, they soon appear around me. A half dozen of them, perching on the solar array, swirling in a wide circle nearby, or settling like black flags in the nearby pines. All of them croaking or cawing incessantly, as if they've just realized I sometimes call them greasy birds.
Or
might they be voicing demands? Maybe they want a raven-only birdbath with a
decent view of the lake below. Perhaps they're insisting I wear paisley print
shirts again (which I am willing to do). Or could it be they're urging me to be
less friendly to snakes? And sometimes they sound like gravelly kazoos, which
confounds me completely.
I
don't grasp ravenspeak. I do, however, now understand why little birds so often
mob them to chase them the hell away.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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