I heard them before I saw them, their raspy voices calling loudly from overhead. Only after turning the corner onto my street did I spot the ravens circling a couple of blocks away. At first a few shiny black birds flapped across my field of view, but as I drew nearer, I could see that a crowd was forming. Perhaps a dozen darkly irridescent corvids had settled onto a telephone wire; half again as many still circled above. From the volume of sound they made, I’d guess that all of them were screaming.
What was causing this furor? As I reached the corner on which the birds gathered, I could see in a yard a white box on which the ravens’ attention was fixed. I turned the corner, going out of my way to get a closer look. Clusters of dark, shiny feathers projected above the top of an open men’s shirt box. Looking carefully, I could make out the ends of wings and tail. None of the feathers were moving.
Why was a dead raven in a cardboard box in my neighbors’ side yard? Had it dashed itself against the glass of one of their large windows? Had their cat caught it? Had it been found dead, and placed in a spare box until it could be buried? Whatever the cause of the raven’s death, its still body was not going unremarked by its fellow corvids.
I don’t imagine that ravens mourn their dead. They are not the sort of birds to throw a wake. Rather, I imagine that they were staring down angrily at death, and yelling to the heavens: Watch out! Another raven is coming.
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Wow! What an interesting thing to see (except for the dead one, of course) - it does make you wonder what they think.