Friday. Cats creating the usual ruckus to announce they’re starving. Teenage son up and readying for school. Me huddled under covers, procrastinating.
Friday. Nothing goes onto Friday’s calendar that isn’t All About Me. At least that is my intention. This particular Friday is all about the word, the conjuring of words, a plethora of words.
Friday. Raven chatter calls my attention to the sky and so up to the roof I go, balancing a plate of toast atop a big mug of tea. I have never seen ravens calling in other ravens, and this morning’s raven klatsch happens to be gathering right above my house.
A tight group of 10 or so is circling. Others join 3 ~ 4 at a time, smoothly, gracefully, from all directions, no early morning honking of horns. Some circle in clockwise, others counterclockwise. Some decide which way to go once they have entered. Human drivers could learn a thing or two from these birds about rotary etiquette.
Every 20-30 seconds or so, this seemingly random circling of ravens becomes star-shaped, then melds back into ever-growing circles. As they wing by one another, there are bursts of raven-chatter, but it never sounds argumentative. I lose count at 60, and as I watch and count, ooh and ahh, I am also asking these ravens for advice. A sign, a signal, a message. Ever since last May’s encounter with the Frigate birds, I have been quite open to what the winged have to say.
And I got it. This grouping of ravens, this ‘congress’, this ‘conspiracy’ is also called a ‘storytelling’.