White Winged Crow

A crow with white wings lives in my neighbourhood. I want to be his friend. I want him to teach me how to speak crow, and tell me all the secrets of the crows in my city. Sitting up on the telephone wires, staring down at the people below. Flying over the city, screaming, "FUCK! FUCK!" in crow language. Eating dead things off the street, not caring who watches. Being crow. Feeling crow.

He could make me king of the crows. His white wings give him that power. Place a crown of pigeon bones on my head. Caw the right words in my ear. The other crows would bow before me. The white winged crow would sit on my shoulder. Royal advisor. Keeping me in line with crow beliefs. Counseling me proper, in crow etiquette and law.

King of crows is a title that comes with responsibility. Crows will come to me with their petty squabbles.

"I was in the backyard, watching the pie on the window sill, all ready to dive down, and then he comes along..."

"That's bullshit! I was there first! I was watching from the barn next door. I had dibs. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about..."

Judge Judy of the crows. In fact, Judge Judy might be crow royalty too. Every state, province, town -- hell, every neighbourhood might have a king or queen of crows. It's not like crows are organized. Or reasonable. Or sane.

Crows are crazy, dirty, wild. Bikers with wings. A group of them is called a "murder", but they call themselves an anarchy of crows. All flutter and strut and violence, black eyes against black feathers, staring like midget mob bosses. Everything is food, to them. And they don't care. Crows are hard. The only reason they don't have teeth is because they don't need them. They've got that beak, like a razor and a claw hammer in one.

As a crow king, I'll need to watch my back. Assassination attempts every afternoon. Crows are easily bored.

"Up for some regicide?"

"Sure. Why the fuck not?"

I'll need a cluster of semi-loyal crow underlings to protect me. My court of crows. Maybe outsource some work to owls, robins, and gulls. Crows aren't above hiring others to do their dirty work.

We'll set up our court in an empty warehouse by the river. The windows are gray with bird droppings. Our court jester is a mentally ill one legged ostrich we saved from a zoo. She hops around, the bells on her head ringing. Everyone pelts her with pebbles when she tells a bad joke.

"Never let them know you're human," the white winged crow whispers to me. "They'll stop listening you. All of them. They'll fly off, abandon you. Our kind, we don't hate humans. We just consider them beneath us. They drop the food we eat. Their cars kill the things we peck at on the road. So we need them. But we need them the same way you need wheat. No one really respects or cares about wheat."

Can't they tell I'm human? Isn't it obvious? And yet, somehow, it's not. Faking humanity for so long, it was easy to shake it off one day, become a king of crows. So many people, faking it. One day they wake up, drop their humanity on the bathroom floor like a dirty old bathrobe.

"Won't be needing this anymore. Off to better things."

And we humans fade out, become king of crows, queen of coyotes, knight of the chipmunks, lord emperor of the groundhogs. Plenty of opportunities everywhere you look, if you know how. Little colonies of animals even in the centre of the city. Last month I met the duchess of termites. It's considered the highest breach of protocol to say it, but she was a naked woman in her sixties.

We human royalty of animal worlds all have a silent pact -- never give anyone else away. Seeing as how we're all in vulnerable positions, it's an easy pact to keep.

All of this will be my life. Any day now. First thing I have to do, is talk the white winged crow down off his wire. Bring him down to street level. Have him sit on my shoulder. Become his friend. Once we're friends, it will all play out beautifully.

I need the proper lure. A bribe. Is he the sort of crow who collects shiny bits of metal? Fabrics of all different colours? Would he do it for a chunk of muffin that's just turning moldy? Blueberries, perhaps? What is it he wants?

It's a test. I can see that much. He's sitting up there, on the lamppost, looking down at me, waiting for me to figure it out. Once I find the key, once I prove myself worthy, we can get underway.

"Solve it. Solve my riddle. Solve the riddle of me, the white winged crow. Figure out what I want and give it to me. Then your life will change forever. You'll shed your humanity and live in an empty warehouse, a king of crows. It won't be an easy life, but it will be a life worth living."

***

(There really is a crow with white wings in my neighbourhood.)