The Crows are haunting me, or perhaps I’m haunting them, like a groupie for a band who turns his head at familiar chords.
But the Crows here are still different to me after years living here, ossifragus rather than brachyrhynchos. The ones I first listened to were the kings of of my hometown, big-voiced braggarts that demanded to be heard across parks and blocks. They dared to challenge Red Tails that wandered downtown. They marched into streets to investigate litter. They had two voices, an exuberant shout for the world and a clattering murmur for each other.
The Fish Crows here seem to be niched between fearless Mockingbirds and slumming Gulls that wander up-river. They appear solitary or in pairs rather than in gangs that can be called a “murder.” They’re still Crows though, even if they sound a bit off to my ears.