A week ago, as I drove to work, about to be late, I saw a crow ahead of me in the middle of the street, picking at the remains of what was probably a squirrel carcass.  I didn't slow down, never thinking the bird would get under my tire.  As I got closer, the crow turned and walked four steps into the other lane and waited for me to pass.  It was a leisurely walk, as if to say, "What, do you think I'm a robin?"  I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the bird ambling back to its food.  I guess the crow displayed cautious optimism.
     One pre-dawn morning last summer, my bedroom windows open, I woke up and lay there for a while, unable to get back to sleep.  A crow in a nearby tree began a morning song.  The night lack of traffic on my usually busy street put my focus into the crow's voice, because it was a solo sound.  I noticed patterns to the caws, and, far away, answering caws from at least two other crows.  The crow near me would caw five times, then four, then three, then two.  There were patterns around this basic countdown pattern, too.  It wasn't as sophisticated, perhaps, as Morse Code, but it had to be a language.  I've noticed patterns, harder to follow, in the songs of crickets.  Car noises on my street, by contrast, are chaotic and lacking in elegance.

                                                                               Vic Neptune