Last night I put the 800mm on the top of the cottonwood down the road a hundred yards — a hundred feet up — and waited. Two crows came in against a sky that couldn’t make up its mind between dusk and storm. A thunderhead lit gold behind them. They were watching the sun set. One was grooming the other, then flew off. The remaining one waited a beat and then followed.
It’s the same story the crow told me, it’s the only one he knows.
Here’s what I keep turning over. We tend to read that line as the crow being simple — nothing to say but the same old caw. But the crow is one of the most intelligent creatures on the planet. They recognize human faces, use tools, solve problems, and warn each other about danger. They hold a grudge for up to seventeen years. And this is the part that stops me cold — parent crows teach their young which humans to fear, so a bird that never met you can already carry the verdict on your face.
That’s not a simple animal. That’s a being with a long memory and strong opinions about who you are.
So the one story the crow knows — maybe it isn’t simple at all. Maybe it’s the whole thing compressed into something ancient and efficient.
Like the morning sun you come, and like the wind you go.
You arrive. You leave. No time to hate — barely time to wait — and in between there’s only the one real question the whole song is circling toward, the one Hunter saves for last:
Whoa-oh, what I want to know is — are you kind?
Not are you smart. The crow’s got smart covered. Not are you strong, or right, or winning. Are you kind. The crow remembers your face for seventeen years either way. He’s just keeping track of which kind of person you turned out to be.
This morning a robin landed on the fence rail, orange chest lit up, asking nothing of anybody. Different bird, different story. But I think it’s the same question underneath.
Are you kind. It’s the only one he knows. Maybe it’s the only one worth knowing.