Helene, Part Four: The Crow
Two summers ago, I set a shallow bowl out on our side porch and filled it with water. The impulse came after an odd encounter with a frantic squirrel. After describing the creature’s demeanor to a wildlife expert, she said it was likely suffering from a bot fly infestation which, while not fatal, would give her significant thirst and persistent itchiness. I wanted to help however I could. Thus, the bowl of water. Slowly, over time, that shallow bowl became a haven for all sort of creatures. The squirrels found it, and so did the myriad of bird species that frequent the yard. Once, even a curious young bear gave it a sloppy sampling. Observing and maintaining the water bowl became a daily ritual that brought me immense joy.
A week or so ago, somewhere in the blur of post-storm life, my partner and I arrived home from our daily trip into town when I spotted something odd in the yard: a sizable black mound on the ground near the water bowl. My heart sank. Could it be, a dead crow? For better or worse, I am a woman of superstitions. Any deceased animal in the yard comes with a sense of foreboding. We approached it carefully, our nerves on edge. “It’s alive,” he remarked, “I can see it breathing.” I too observed a labored, heaving movement, and saw the blink of a weary eye. It was injured, but it persisted. We live in a neighborhood with many precocious cats— domesticated but roaming, and happy to make lunch of any critter they can take down. I couldn’t stand the idea of this struggling bird becoming a feline’s feast. I watched it protectively, wondering if there was a way to move it to safety.
This was not the first time an injured animal had crossed my path in a moment of mutual crisis. Once, many winters ago as an unseasonably deep freeze was approaching our region, I came across a wayward and tattered dog on the way home from a friend’s house late at night. She readily jumped into my car when I threw the door open, and I took her back to my place. Unfortunately, my beloved but territorial wolf dog would not allow for an unexpected visitor, so I kept this stinky and shivering new friend in the car where I stayed by her side all night long. Swaddled together in blankets with the heat running intermittently , and reflected on how this spirit and I came to meet in this delicate moment— she being displaced from home, our town on the brink of an unusual cold snap, and my personal life on the cusp of reorganizing itself completely.
Back in my post-Helene yard, I decided to approach the injured crow, taking my time, to offer it some water. At first I thought perhaps it had been in a fight with a hawk, or the aforementioned cats that so regularly stalk the yard. I could have spent the rest of my life creeping ever so slowly toward that creature, so as to not alarm it. I kept my eyes down, as if I were just casually inspecting the grass or the fallen holly leaves. When I came within two feet of it, I placed a dish of water between us. I steadily edged the bowl closer towards its beak. We looked briefly into each other’s eyes. I talked calmly to it. But then I got too close, and to my surprise it flew off to a neighboring yard, revealing one leg dangling beneath it. I searched the ground for evidence of blood and found nothing. I was saddened to have disturbed it, but comforted to know it could fly and was now safely in the treetops.
A week later, its memory a bruise on my heart, I awoke to notice a crow hanging around in the yard— not an unusual sight— but when I noticed it several hours later in roughly the same spot, my curiosities piqued. I made a mental note to check the yard later, and sure enough, that beautiful crow was laying down in our yard the way the injured one had done on that first day. My partner and I took turns observing it occasionally as we went about our days, and he reported that he’d seen it hopping around. This confirmed my suspicions, it was indeed our injured friend. I gave it space but checked on it frequently, feeling honored that our first encounter had left positive enough an impression that it felt safe returning. I spotted it a few days later, in its same pattern of laying in the sun and hopping around scavenging for food. I hope to see it again soon.
It eventually occurred to me that this bird may very well have been injured during the storm. I thought a lot about the birds on that Friday morning when Helene blew through our region. I googled, “how do birds survive hurricanes?”. As I’ve watched our community rally in the most remarkable and resilient ways to help support humans in crisis in the wake of this storm, my mind has often fallen on those with no voice at all: the wildlife of our region. It felt questionable to maintain the water bowl in the yard in the early days post-Helene, not knowing how easy clean water would be to come by, counting our days in gallons, but I couldn’t let go of this ritual. The birds are survivors too.