In suburban Seattle, I watched a one-eyed cat endure the injustice of crows. They dove at him daily like arrows. It seemed cruel, so I intervened—and stupidly threw a rock. I missed, but I was marked. Wherever I went, on quiet streets, across campus, beneath a grove, they descended, screeching. Even in downtown Seattle, they would buzz me. My neighbor later explained: The cat had killed a baby crow two years before. The crows insisted on payback. They taught their children about me. I moved to New York to escape their hostility. Even now, I watch my step among corvids.
Kirby Olson lives in rural New York State, keeping one eye on the crows. His most recent poetry book is Night Shift at the Utopian Turtletop Factory.