A Lone Crow Calls
A Lone Crow Calls
On this hot summer day, the only sound I hear is a crow. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Ko-aw.
I’m sweltering under the overhang on the back deck, with a fan pointed at me. Nothing is moving in the backyard, where ducks, geese, donkeys, dogs, cats, goats, and a pig are usually milling about.
At a normally busy bird feeder, a lone red-winged blackbird and a few song sparrows sit, occasionally dip their beaks into the seed, and sit some more.
There is no wind. The stoic trees stand still, their branches drooping under the oppressive heat and the weight of their foliage.
The slowly oscillating fan is disappointing. I can barely feel when the air passes over me. Not until much later will I discover that the far right of the dial, where I’ve turned it, is the lowest setting. That seems all wrong, as does this heat, this stillness.
Ko-aw, ko-ao, ko-aw. The crow hasn’t stopped yakking, and in my lethargic pose, I start timing it. So far it’s been nine minutes with no letup. By contrast, my usually noisy flock of ducks and geese aren’t making a peep. I wonder if they’re okay.
But I don’t get up. I know they’re in the creek, huddled together under the lowest branches that hang out over the water, providing some relief from the sun that seems intent on burning us all straight to hell.
There is no life, it would appear, in the pig and goats’ pen. But I also know the goats are lying in the shade of their play station, and Louisa is tucked inside her straw-filled house. If I were closer, I would hear her snoring.
So it’s just the crow and me. And the crow is deep in the woods. Fifteen minutes of one crow repeating itself: Ka-ow. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Is the crow sick or hurt? Does it need help? Is it suffering from heat stroke?
I thought the donkeys were in their three-sided shelter, but I now see two brown humps in the dirt. They are lying nose to tail, the way cows stand in the pasture to keep flies at bay. It seems Carlos’s tail has lost its will to flick, like a kid’s toy when the battery wears down. One one-thousand, flick. Two one-thousand, flick. Diego’s tail moves slightly quicker and more strongly.
If I had the bandwidth to get up and peer into the deck’s crawl space, I’d see the cats spread out underneath, unmoving. And the dogs?
Finnegan is lying near me on the deck, on his back, legs up like sticks, mouth open, tongue hanging out to catch the pathetic breeze from the lazy fan.
Téte is tucked under the porch swing, up against the front of the house. Less than an hour ago, I ran the hose and soaked her down with cold water, through her thick fur right to her skin. The silly girl then ran like the wind we all wish for, around the house, onto the deck, back down the stairs, and around again. She wore herself out.
Maybe that’s the way to beat this heat: exhaust yourself so you zonk out and don’t feel like you’re baking inside a bat cave in 200-degree weather.
Ruben is indoors. He’s a smart dog who regularly follows me everywhere, but not in this heat. He stays inside even when I go out, most likely thinking me a fool.
Only because I’m trying to write this column, and I hate the thought of Ruben considering me a fool, I heave myself up and look at the thermometer: 92. Later I learn the humidity is at “only” 54 percent, about half what it’s been in recent days. I want to celebrate this glorious fact, but I can’t. The “feels like” temperature is still a whopping 100 degrees.
My sweat-drenched clothes are stuck to my skin, and if I had to pull my pants and then my undies down to pee, I’d lose the race. But thankfully, I don’t have to because it seems I’m dehydrated. My coffee, my water, and my herbal tea don’t want to leave my body. I imagine them clinging to my insides for dear life.
I stay on the back porch under the roof and finally figure out the fan settings. Not that it helps. I have 32 plants to water and fuss over; donkeys, goats, and one pig to reapply fly repellent to; and three drinking bowls of hot water to dump and make cold again.
Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Ko-aw. Thirty-four minutes of nonstop calling, and I’m no closer to knowing what this crow needs. Likely it’s a plea for rain or snow.