Corvid 20

Sitting here in the summerhouse, contemplating how the rain is getting in, I am playing a soundtrack of forest sounds over two bluetooth speakers. Combined with the sounds from the garden, it is impossible to distinguish which birdsong is coming from the trees and which is digitally propagated. Except the recording seems to offer no goldfinches with their twittering cheerfulness. I know that to be actually present. It has been glorious weather for a few weeks of beautiful Spring, until a couple of days ago when the much-needed rain appeared. The water butts, all daisy-chained with blue plastic pipe, filled up overnight from their state of dusty emptiness and the bark paths in the veg garden now squelch with every footstep. I can almost hear the broccoli growing so fecund is the season.

So, I sit down to write and the rain stops. The milky polycarbonate windows (the frames are too flimsy for glass) allow in the newly-reappearing sun and the temperature starts to rise. I insulated the walls quite well so quite soon it will be unbearably warm in here. But for now it is merely pleasant. I feel it is a good place to sit and write as the the birds both real and digital chirrup away. I am hiding in here because the house, in this lockdown, is occupied to capacity and I need the peace and quiet this luxury affords. I acknowledge how lucky I am to have a garden, let alone this (rather shoddy because of budget) summerhouse and that others are suffering intense enforced proximity in strict confinement with no such escape possible. But I am lucky and I am here.
I have no idea what I will write and no burning topics press themselves forward demanding expression. But I am compelled to write because I feel I am losing my ability to express myself and perhaps like the control of physical musculature, the ability can be strengthened by practice. My arms and back are strong from working as a gardener but a commensurate lack of use of my mental faculties causes me concern that some ability might be diminishing. Perhaps some regular writing might help avert this perceived decline. Here's hoping.

I have just been watching a crow. on the lawn, pecking about haphazardly for  birdseed spilt from the feeders.  He has what looks like a club foot and walks with an awkward gait clumsily hobbling on the back of it. We know this crow  well and call him Charlie (I think he is actually a rook, but I shall refer to him as a crow because it feels more familiar). I have no idea if his disfigurement was congenital, as, I think is talopes, in humans, or whether it was as a result of some kind of accident early on in his life. It does, however, cause him to appear distinguishable and easier to find affection for. To see his struggles on the bird feeder, which all the other crows and jackdaws ravage with ferocity when humans are not obviously present, does engender pity. He can't hang on and peck and hence loses out. So, I try to make sure that when titbits are to be put out for the birds, he gets a generous share.

Charlie Clubfoot is our affectionate moniker for him and I hope one day to train him to recognise that when I shout "Charlie!" food is subsequently forthcoming. I know this can happen because my father used to have a Charlie at the rubbish tip where he worked who would come to his name and by way of reward receive a piece of cheese (from the rubbish pile. Crows are not choosy). Operant conditioning is usually easy with crows. We know corvids to be unusually clever amongst birds. They have a large social aspect to their lives which tends to require complexity of cognition because dealing with other individuals is complex and necessitates intelligence.
Our Charlie is not so bright. He still hasn't realised that he gets special treatment. I chase off all the other crows, the number of which has been increasing in recent years, but not him. Charlie has been visiting, as far as I can recall, since we moved in. That was nearly four years ago. Crows can live as long as twenty years if circumstances are favourable.  That Charlie, being disabled and shunned in polite crow society should still be around and healthy after at least four years is a testament to his tenacity and cunning. I am sure a club foot, withered and useless for perching or grasping, must be a serious impediment, but I was pleased to see last year that he had appeared with a female and a youngster and appeared to be showing what I presume to be his offspring, how to forage. Baby crows are curious looking; Cute in an avian kind of way, as if they are wearing a fuzzy grey balaclava. It's nice to know he found a mate and had a family. It feels like a kind of happy ending occurred at some point in his life. And Charlie Junior is able bodied and so doesn't have to hobble about on the lawn in an asymmetric fashion.

In the natural world any disadvantage usually weeds out individuals from the gene pool. It pleases me to see Charlie and his family prosper. I know all corvids can be, as we deem it, cruel: Most omnivorous or carnivorous animals will eat pretty much any creature smaller than themselves and songbird fledglings probably form at least a part of a crows diet at certain times of the year. Hence I am not sentimental about Charlie's lifestyle. But he is a character in the garden amongst so many other wonderful but hard-to-identify individuals and I would miss him were he to disappear. I am under no illusion that he is as opportunistic and voracious as his comrades. But I like to think he is a bit special.

As an aside, crows, jackdaws, rooks and ravens (which we also have around here but which are very shy) are able to see in the ultraviolet so individuals indistinguishable to us are probably vividly and characteristically marked in this spectrum, possibly striped or patchy. But to us, they all look black, occasionally with grey bits. Charlie doesn't appear to be very popular with his kin. They seem to shun him. But their uniformity provides no distinction whereas Charlie's poorly foot is very distinguishable and so, in a perverse way, to his advantage. Sometimes, it seems, it pays to be different.