04/15/2026
I recognized your face three years ago. I told every crow on this block. Most of them have never seen you up close, but they know what you look like.
I'm an American crow. You hear me every morning and most of what I'm saying goes right past you.
The short, sharp caw — that's a location call. I'm telling the flock where I am. The rapid burst of five or six caws is an alarm. Hawk overhead. Cat in the open. Or you, if I've decided you're worth announcing.
The low, rattling sound you rarely hear — that's between me and my mate. We use it at close range. It's not meant for you.
I use tools. I plan meals. I remember faces for years. I've watched you carry groceries from the car every Thursday and I know which bag has the bread.
My mate and I have been nesting in the same tree for four years. Last year's offspring — three of them — stayed through the winter to help raise this year's clutch. The yearlings guard the nest, mob hawks, and bring food to the chicks. They learn parenting before they breed. It's a family operation.
I cache food in dozens of locations across this neighborhood. I remember each one. When I notice a blue jay watching me hide something, I go back later and move it.
🐾 If you want to know me:
- Put out unsalted peanuts in the same spot daily — I'll find them within a day
- I sometimes leave objects in return — buttons, bits of glass, paper clips
- I recognize faces I've seen and faces I've only been told about
- If I'm mobbing something in a tree, it's a hawk or an owl — look where I'm looking
You've been sharing a street with something worth paying attention to 🌿