Viscera for breakfast

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Meanwhile, back on the mountain, the first snows of the season make the blues come down. I don’t want to say that these are my blues, necessarily, but there are always plenty to go around. I am thankful for the cold in which sound does not travel so fast or far; it’s quiet enough that you can hear the beech leaves whistling through their teeth.

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Wounds are harder to hide now. But those who cause the wounds are just as vulnerable, easy targets against the snow. If you need somewhere to take shelter & to sharpen your claws, baby, look no further.

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Here in the mountains, the sun can take a long time to reach down into every cove & hollow. Some places don’t see the morning sun until well past noon. We can sleep in late.

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But some days, you know if you lie down you might not get back up. The comforter is heavy with the breast feathers of geese that never got to fly south.

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I saw seven crows in an oak tree, silent, waiting for the hunter of images to go on past & for the sun to thaw their breakfast of viscera. Dense red muscle of the heart, stomach like a deflated balloon, the liver’s sour purple disc: everything about a deer is beautiful. Even the footprints of these eaters are thinner & more delicate than I would have expected.

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Look, here’s an empty seat. You could well say it’s nothing looking at nothing, & you might be right. On the other hand, the sun’s not as lonely as he looks: for those in the know, this is by far the best time of year to go sunbathing. You can sit fully clothed in the midst of all this nakedness & feel rich & lucky & happy to be alive.

Blues country

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The Yazoo-Mississippi Delta is a vast, inland delta or floodplain stretching from Memphis in the north to Vicksburg in the south, and miles deep in rich, alluvial soil. Rocks, such as this rip-rap along the bayou in downtown Cleveland, Mississippi, are a valuable commodity.

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“As for surrealism, I think there’s more of it in the blues [than in jazz]. The early stuff, especially. Most people know Bessie Smith and perhaps Robert Johnson, but there are many others. Incredible verbal invention. What one would call ‘jive,’ but also eroticism, the tragic sense of life. If the blues were French, we’d be studying it at Yale.”
Charles Simic (interview with Sherod Santos)

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“Some of my blues is kinda sad blues ’cause sometimes I be feeling down and out. And I know some other womens do too. I play them so it will hit somebody. The songs are for anybody that listen to it – so I can tell ’em. … Shotgun, everywhere I play it, everybody like it. It’s just kinda of you’ve been mistreated and you want to blow somebody away. [laughs]. The other one is about nosy neighbors. They talk about you all the time. See, I got a lot of neighbors talking, lie, go on about me. They all the time lying and going on. And I just sat out in the yard and made a record about them. Turned the amplifier up as loud as I could get it so they could get the message.”
Jessie Mae Hemphill (1991 interview)

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Nearly 400 families lived on the Dockery plantation in the 1920s, when the style of guitar blues later associated with Clarksdale (and still later with the South Side of Chicago) first took shape. Blues researcher and native Mississippian Gayle Dean Wardlow: “It may at first seem fantastic that three of the very best bluesmen – [Charley] Patton, Son House, and Willie Brown – should have been on the same plantation at the same time. However, once we accept [Patton’s sister] Viola’s statement that Patton taught them all, it no longer seems so remarkable…. Brown was Patton’s closest disciple. Son House, with his dark brooding singing and strange chording, started a following of his own.”

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Parchman Farm, still one of the most brutal prisons in the United States. David Oshinsky:

The most common offenses – fighting, stealing, “disrespect” to an officer, and failure to meet work quotas – were punishable by five to fifteen lashes. Escape attempts carried an unspeakable penalty: a whipping without limits. One superintendent recalled a mass breakout in the 1930s in which a trusty-shooter was killed. “To get confessions,” he said, “I had whippings given to the eight we caught who weren’t wounded. Before the young ringleader confessed, I had him lashed on the buttocks, calves, and palms, then gave him fifteen lashes on the soles of his feet. This cleared his mind.”The number and severity of whippings depended on the sergeant in charge. “Book rules” meant little in the field camps, which were fiefdoms unto themselves. The sergeants worked in relative isolation. Some of them were alcoholics; a few were sadists. “They beat hell out of you for any reason or no reason,” an inmate remarked. “It’s the greatest pleasure of their lives.” Above all, the sergeants were under pressure to make a good crop, and that meant pushing the men. “What can you expect in the way of judgment at fifty dollars a month?” asked one prison official. “What kind of foreman on the outside [is] employed at fifty dollars a month? They usually pay foremen more than anybody else, the man who works the men, but that’s what they pay here – fifty dollars a month!”

Oh listen you men, I don’t mean no harm
Oh listen you men, I don’t mean no harm
If you wanna do good, you better stay off old Parchman Farm

-Booker T. Washington “Bukka” White, “Parchman Farm Blues”

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Amber waves of foam on the Mississippi River at Rosedale

Lord, I’m goin’ to Rosedale, gon’ take my rider by my side
Lord, I’m goin’ to Rosedale, gon’ take my rider by my side
We can still barrelhouse baby, on the riverside

– Robert Johnson, “Traveling Riverside Blues”

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Eatery in Rosedale

“Blues taught me a number of things. How to tell a story quickly, economically. The value of gaps, ellipses, and most importantly, the value of simplicity and accessibility.”
– Charles Simic

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Crossroads at sunset, Bolivar County, Mississippi

“The world’s still standing like it was a million years ago. Sun still comes up and goes down, wind still blow from the four corners of the earth, the stars still shine. It’s the peoples that live in the world that’s got it so messed up.”
– Big Jack Johnson (1991 interview)

St. Louis blues

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Sliding out from behind a billboard Supporting the Warfighter, another odd pustule of civilization interrupts the smooth horizon of the Middle West. Off to one side, a silver parabola straight out of a math textbook makes me scan the sky for an x-axis, that new horizon people are always talking about.

The bus station occupies a Victorian-era bank building with a two-storey-high ceiling and a small, resident flock of English sparrows. This is Greyhound’s gateway terminal for all points west, and it’s so crowded, people can hardly tell which line to stand in. I stow my bags in a locker and head for downtown on foot, ignoring warnings from a security officer that this is Not a Good Neighborhood. I guess that must mean black people live here; presumably, the bank went under when its red lines failed to check the tide. Gone are the days when Those People could be safely bottled up in East St. Louis, easy prey for racist cops and weekend vigilantes.

A mob is passionate; a mob follows one man or a few men blindly; a mob sometimes takes chances. The East St. Louis affair, as I saw it, was a manhunt, conducted on a sporting basis, though with anything but the fair play which is the principle of sport. They went in small groups, there was little leadership, and there was a horribly cool deliberateness and a spirit of fun about it.It was no crowd of hot-headed youths. Young men were in the greater number, but there were the middle-aged, no less active in the task of destroying the life of every discoverable black man.

That’s from an eyewitness account of the 1917 riot (click on the link for much more gruesome details). The factories of St. Louis were busy turning out materials for the first fully modern war when resentment at the influx of black laborers from the south spilled over into violence.

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It’s a sunny afternoon, and the streets are nearly deserted. A white plastic shopping bag – A.K.A. urban tumbleweed – crosses the avenue in front of me. One plaza near the heart of the downtown features, in lieu of a public fountain, a large, square opening that affords a view down onto an otherwise hidden stream. The opening provides just enough light to support grass and a few bushes (though not enough, at this time of day, for a good picture), and the overall effect is slightly vertiginous, as if the concrete flesh of the present could be peeled back at any time. The banks of the stream are dotted with small homeless encampments, whose presumed inhabitants are sitting around on benches in the street level portion of the plaza, soaking up the sun.

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It’s odd, the pull of an icon. Everything I see is colored by my expectation of the Arch. And why not? Eero Saarinen’s parabola captures as well as any monument could the Western European desire to cut all ties with the earth and inhabit a world of pure abstraction – a desire at least as old as the great cathedrals of the Middle Ages.

But just because the architect conceived of it as a symbolic gateway into the future doesn’t mean that everyone else has to see it that way. And in fact, a very close-up view of the thing shows the efforts of more recent, anonymous artists to capture the Arch for their own visions. We were here, they want us to know, or We were in love. However cluttered or atavistic our lives may seem, they still have value.

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I’m surprised to see a crowd of tourists lined up in front of a subterranean set of doors. It turns out that the Arch is hollow, and that one can ride a tram clear up to the top. The National Park Service has custody of the memorial site, and their police make everyone pass through security gates.

I get in line against my better judgement. I’m one of those who continue to set off the alarms even after removing every scrap of metal from my pockets; they pat me down, make me pull up my pants legs, and finally let me bypass the gate. Forty minutes later, I leave the Museum of Westward Expansion brimming with anger at its celebration of Manifest Destiny, its bland platitudes glossing over the grim realities of genocide and conquest.

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But at least the museum gives plenty of background on the building of the Arch. Winning the competition for the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in 1947 catapulted the young Eero Saarinen to fame. He remains best known for the Arch, but his other creations are equally imbued with an almost fetishistic attraction to modernity – the 20th century’s version of Manifest Destiny. His design for the General Motors Technical Center, with its sprawling, one-storey buildings designed to celebrate the culture of the automobile, set the template for the modern corporate campus. The TWA Terminal and Dulles International Airport buildings embody a utopian vision of jet travel based, of course, on the false premise of a future of unlimited fossil fuels. As the website Eero Saarinen: Realizing American Utopia puts it,

Saarinen’s stylistic range came to represent the postwar American ideal of an open-ended society of unbounded choice and diversity. Key to the successful projection of this ideal were Saarinen’s visionary clients–businessmen like IBM’s Thomas J. Watson and CBS’s Frank Stanton who presided over the development of progressive technologies like computers and television. Saarinen, working in close collaboration with his clients, deployed equally progressive construction and mechanical systems for new office buildings set in bucolic corporate parks. At the same time, Saarinen himself embodied the free and creative individualist. Together, Saarinen and his work represented the image of a utopian capitalist America, ever new and dynamic and in full control of its domain.

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Walking back, a tune pops into my head, accompanied by – yes – a vision: Louis Armstrong with his trumpet, blowing the venerable old tune about the city that shares his name for an ecstatic audience of tens of thousands in newly liberated Ghana, 1956:

St. Louis woman, with all her diamond rings…

When I get back to the station, the evening sun is just going down.

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Greyhound stew

This entry is part 2 of 3 in the series Peckerwood Pilgrim

 

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“A trident cooking hearth does not spill stew.” With this piece of wisdom, gleaned from a book of Yoruba proverbs, my friend L. had wished me an emailed bon voyage. Now it’s 9:00 a.m. on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I’ve been on the road since 6:30 the previous evening and have made it as far as Indianapolis.

Over the summer, Greyhound eliminated a number of routes to more rural, less popular destinations, which is why someone traveling between such minor cities as Altoona, Pennsylvania and Cleveland, Mississippi might find himself routed through St. Louis. “New faster service,” crow the posters inside the terminal. “Stop less. Go more.” And indeed, my layover in Indianapolis has only lasted fifty minutes – but this would prove to be the exception. In all, on the way to Mississippi I’ll spend more than sixteen of my thirty-eight hours of travel time in “stop” mode, including a five hour and fifty minute layover in St. Louis, coming up this afternoon.

I’ve just reboarded the St. Louis bus. Sunlight floods the space under the high arched roof where the buses pull in. Directly across from me on the other side of the terminal’s glass wall, an African-American teenager talks on his cellphone. He pivots restlessly on one foot, left arm behind his back, baseball cap turned sideways. Every time he opens his mouth to laugh, which is often, the sun flashes on a full set of braces – a dazzling sight. I feel as if I am intercepting a coded message from the agent of some previously unknown, possibly angelic power: FLASH. FLASH FLASH FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.

Going Greyhound has always been a somewhat surreal experience; over the last few years, the growing popularity of cellphones has added an extra layer of weirdness. Now you get to hear what a lot of people are thinking about, beyond those who habitually talk to themselves. Not that this knowledge is always especially welcome. In the seat in front of me a thin, blond, thirty-something woman with a T-shirt that says “Naughty” dials several numbers with no apparent success. Or perhaps she is dialing the same number over and over, waiting for the other party to wake up and answer the phone.

At last she gets someone, and dispenses with the usual salutation. “I’m gonna press charges against you,” I hear her say. “I’m gonna press charges against you.” Pause. “I said, I’m gonna press charges against you.” Pause. “I’m gonna press charges against you.” Shorter pause. “Yeah, asshole, I’m gonna press charges against you. For assault. For assault.” Pause. “For assault.” Pause. “And that’s a mandatory jail time, mandatory jail time.” Pause. “That’s a mandatory jail time.”

She snaps the phone shut, puts it in her pocket and goes back to staring out the window.

The seat beside me remains empty. Last night at Dayton, the young black guy who had been sitting there since Columbus decided to move one seat back, in order to sit beside the older white woman who had made a complimentary remark about his butt when she squeezed past him in the crowded aisle. “You seem kind of friendly,” he said to her, adding quickly, “No offense – ” to me – “but if I should happen to fall asleep and end up falling into someone’s lap by mistake… you know…” We all laugh.

“I have a husband waiting for me in Indianapolis,” the woman warns, clearly flattered. “Oh, that’s O.K., baby. I’ll just be warming you up for him!”

Across the aisle, a woman takes a book from her bag and begins to read. I don’t get a glimpse of the cover, but I can read the bold letters at the top of each page: PROPHESY. Panama Hat Man stretches out across the two seats in front of her, and takes his dark glasses off. This is the first I’ve seen his eyes since I ran into him in line at the Columbus terminal. Now that the sun’s out, it seems, he has no further use for dark glasses.

Panama Hat Man is taking crazy pills, and for some reason he wants the world to know about it. He’s in his fifties, short, stocky, of indeterminate ethnicity – a Pacific Islander, I decide, since he says he’s going back to Hawaii, though he also told me he grew up in New Jersey. We’d been riding the same bus since Pittsburgh, but I’d managed to avoid conversation with him until Columbus, when he suddenly turned to me, pulled one earphone out and said, “I’m listening to some Jewish music I picked up in New Jersey. Bush likes it.”

I stared at him. “You mean, a klesmer band?”

“I don’t know… they’re from Rutgers. My Dad bought it for me.

“My Dad’s nice,” he continues. “He bought me a bus ticket clear to L.A., and nine hundred dollars worth of pills.” He shows me two plastic bottles full of brightly colored gel caps nestled in the breast pocket of his jean jacket. “I think he wanted to get rid of me.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. But actually, I think it’s a test. He’s trying to show he trusts me. Wants me to prove myself to him.”

Time spent in bus terminals is always tense with waiting; it’s all too easy to miss a connection, or to end up too far back in line to get a good seat. But once on the bus, all worries evaporate – at least, for me. Others, perhaps, continue to marinate in a stew of personal traumas. As we pull away from the terminal, cellphone conversations gradually peter out, and the engine and blowers combine to make a comforting envelope of white noise in which to doze or daydream. I re-enter a state of almost timeless suspension, floating over the landscape like a passenger on a very low, slow plane. St. Louis, here I come.

Ramifications of travel

This entry is part 1 of 3 in the series Peckerwood Pilgrim

 

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Creeper-festooned oak, White River National Wildlife Refuge, Arkansas

Coming home after ten days away that culminated in two sleepless nights on the return bus, one finds that things are not quite as one had left them. Were the woods really so bare and the field so drab when I left? Well, probably not. But chances are that my house had been just as small and lonesome as it now appears. I sure don’t remember my writing table being so cluttered, though. And where the hell did all this dust come from?

Only ten days, and I find myself groping to recover familiar habits, wondering at myself for doing things in such odd ways. On the morning of my second full day home, I can’t find my daypack, which I had just used the day before, and I rush all over the farm looking for it. When at last I find it, I’m completely baffled at my idiocy. It’s in the chair beside the door, right where I always leave it… I think.

One thing’s clear: it will take me a little time to get back into the writing groove. I am trying to resurrect an idea I had down in Mississippi, just before surrendering to wakefulness on the morning of the day I left. The phrase “decision tree” came to me, accompanied by a literal image of a tree branching downward, into the earth. With each arbitrary life choice, it seemed to me, the clarity of the open sky recedes and one becomes more and more enmeshed in particulars. Then a little later, when I sat outside drinking my coffee, I was struck by the way the large oak tree across the street appeared to be trapped in a maze of electric and telephone lines. Isn’t growing right-side up, after all, a far more hazardous and adventuresome route?

The fabled decision tree
dangles head-down,
rootless on the blackboard
in my dream. Each new
pair of twigs reaches
like a tuning fork
into silence.

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Old-growth bald cypress, Bayou DeView, Arkansas (photo by Mark Bonta)

Mid-term

1. Tell me what language your left hand speaks while your right hand is busy here with the pen. Parse a sentence in it.

2. From dreaming about salamanders, can you remember how it felt to breathe through your skin & listen with the bones in your feet? Use both sides of the paper if necessary.

3. You wake to a thunderstorm on a hot August night; fear mingles with pleasure at the cooling breeze. If you were God, would you prefer being dead to a state of disembodied abstraction? Please provide etymologies for any neologisms.

4. A few snowflakes are sifting down from a clear dawn sky. It’s quiet. In another couple of minutes, the black lace will turn into ordinary treetops. If you wanted to stop time, how would you go about it? Show, don’t tell.

5. I’m curious about what you might have muttered before flushing down that mouse you found floating dead in the toilet just now. Please explain why I have no right to know.

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The house made of sunset, day before yesterday.

I’m traveling to Mississippi to visit my brother and his family; I won’t be back until around December 1. While I’m gone, please consider visiting some of the blogs listed in the column to your right.

Crow wars

I think I just witnessed a gang war between crows. It was a little before ten in the morning, on a day with intermittent flurries. At first I thought the crows were mobbing a predator – that’s what it sounded like – but then I realized they were diving at each other in the sky over Sapsucker Ridge to the west. More birds kept streaming overhead from the east all the while I stood watching, about ten minutes. Most of them landed in the treetops and added their voices to the raucous cheering section for the aerial battles, which included at least a couple dozen combats at a time; the ridge blocked my view of a lot of the action. Brisk winds aloft made for an exciting display of maneuvers: diving, chasing, feinting – Top Gun stuff, for sure.

As is usual with crows, it’s difficult to know how to interpret what I was watching. Maybe it was all just play behavior, occasioned by the wind conditions. Ten minutes later, when I stick my head out the door, there’s no sign of a crow anywhere.

Most non-specialists would probably tend to assume that scientists know a lot about the behavior and life histories of the commoner birds and mammals, especially here in the northeastern U.S., but such is rarely the case. A recent study of white-tailed deer, for example, made a couple surprising discoveries simply by fastening digital cameras to bucks’ antlers: deer touch muzzles constantly, they found. And one deer kept returning to the same spot to drink, despite the availability of closer water sources. What’s surprising about this is that white-tailed deer are probably one of the most-studied animals in the world, apart from human beings, laboratory rats, and fruit flies. How could previous researchers have failed to notice such apparently common behaviors?

So I wasn’t sanguine about throwing much light on what I’d just seen by a quick glance through the literature on the American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos). The Stokes Guide to Bird Behavior, Volume 1, confirms that “There has been amazingly little study of Crows by researchers, so most of the best questions about the birds still cannot be answered.” Its summary of research to date (1979) included this:

Outside of the few months of the breeding season, Crows are extremely gregarious. After the last young have fledged, the family group usually joins other groups of Crows, and these begin to form a large flock that divides up for feeding during the day, but gathers again each night to roost. The roost becomes an important focal point in the birds’ life outside the breeding season. Each morning the roost breaks up into smaller flocks that disperse across the countryside to feed. Some flocks may fly up to fifty miles from the roost each day. In midafternoon these smaller flocks start back toward the communal roost. They fly along flight lines used each day and are joined by other flocks as they go. Often there are preroosting sites, where flight lines coincide and Crows stop to feed before making the final trip to the roost. At these spots there may be much chasing and other spectacular dives as the returning Crows join the others at the preroosting spot. Then just before dusk all the Crows in the area enter the roost site together.

What I saw would seem to have occurred at the wrong time of day for preroosting behavior. But this description does make it clear that not all chasing and diving is antagonistic.

In The American Crow and the Common Raven, Lawrence Kilham describes territorial antagonism across a boundary between two large groups of crows in Lyme, New Hampshire.

I watched forty-five territorial encounters beween 1981 and 1983. While no two were alike, certain behaviors were observed repeatedly. Cawing, heard in thirty-eight of the territorial encounters consisted of sharp caws corresponding to what Good (1957) refers to as warning calls and Camberlain and Cornwell (1971) as simple scolding calls. The crows of both groups cawed when flying toward each other at a distance. This was especially so on early mornings when most encounters took place. If one group alighted in the fields and another in trees, the latter did the most cawing….Other forms of behavior [aside from walking and bluffing displays] included aerial melees (n = 17), bunching (n = 5), and pursuits (n = 5). The melees were spectacular when all members of both groups swirled into the air for three or four seconds, with some swooping on others….

Territorial behaviors also included circular flights (n = 11), which carried the crows of one group a short distance over the boundary into their neighbors’ territory as if to demonstrate where the boundary lay, and treetop sitting (n = 17). The latter was particularly striking on November 26 [1983] when the crows of both groups, after a series of melees, perched on the very tops of their dead elms in full view of each other.

Kilham found that groups facing off over common boundaries tended to be “of the same or about the same size.” None of the conflicts he observed seem to have resulted in serious injury, let alone death. And he speculates that most of the actual combats are left to the dominant or nuclear males, based on his observations of American crows in Florida, and on another scientist’s observations of white-winged choughs, which have similar social patterns.

A more recent source of information is the American Crow monograph for the authoritative Birds of North America series: No. 647, by N. A. M. Verbeek and C. Caffrey, 2002. Over twenty years after Stokes, not much has changed: “Although much has been published about this [species of] crow, we still know relatively little about it.” They add that observations made in one locale may not describe the behavior of crows from somewhere else in the species’ range.

One of the things that appears to vary from place to place is whether territories are maintained throughout the year. Crows on Cape Cod and in New Jersey, California, Oklahoma, Florida and New York do maintain year-round territories, but crows in Ohio and in the northern part of their range in Canada do not. So goodness knows where central Pennsylvania fits. On the topic of aerial melees, Verbeek and Caffrey simply quote Kilham. If there haven’t been many other observations in the literature, that may be because few observers are as patient as he was (me, I went inside when my hands began to freeze). Also, given that American crows favor mixed and open habitat, territorial boundaries might tend to pass through forested areas or follow wooded ridgetops, making interactions along them harder to observe.

As habitat generalists and omnivores with well-developed learning abilities and complex social structures, crows offer many parallels to the behavior of humans and other primates. To a non-scientist like me, it seems natural to characterize group antagonistic behavior as a gang war, but I have to be careful not to let my judgements be too colored by prejudices which are not merely anthropocentric, but ethnocentric as well. For example, we Westerners tend to associate wars with struggles for dominance, leading ideally to the conquest of one group by another. But among the crows that Kilham observed, territorial conflicts seemed to work more to maintain a balance of power – not unlike the low-intensity conflicts that are thought to have been the norm for warfare in much of native North America before 1492. Kilham watched wandering flocks numbering as many as forty crows trespass into group territories without much conflict beyond a lot of cawing. These flocks apparently consisted of nonbreeders – juveniles with no interest in setting up a territory of their own.

It’s also important to remember that territories are maintained cooperatively, for the shared benefit of the crows that use it: “Territories provide improved protection through greater familiarity with safe areas; reduced interference with nest building and copulations; greater protection of stored food; and increased assurance of a good food supply,” Kilham notes. Nor does cooperative behavior end when the breeding season is over. Fall and winter roost sites can only get to be as large as they are by bringing together crows from diverse, non-overlapping daytime feeding territories, and mixing local birds with migrants – foreigners from the north. I wonder if the diving and chasing behavior commonly observed at preroosting sites doesn’t represent a playful, ritualistic form of inter-group conflict? After all, even among humans, the line between play and warfare can get awfully fuzzy – think of the World Cup. In any case, whether we choose to focus on the relatively rare, spectacular outbreaks of crow-to-crow combat, or on the cooperative nature of crow sociability as a whole, probably says a lot more about us than it does about the crows.
__________

The most promising research on American crows since Kilham comes from Kevin McGowan of Cornell University, who has been banding crows and following their progress from year to year since 1988. His crow website includes helpful information on roosting behavior in the F.A.Q. page, and an overview of his own crow study, with links to publications. He writes, “I frequently see crows locked together tumbling out of trees in the spring. Although I have never witnessed an actual killing, I would not be at all surprised to see crows kill another crow from outside the family group that was trespassing.”