For the first time in months the air was warm enough to go out in just a T-shirt. If I lifted my nose I could smell the perfume of flowers in the wind. Gray starlings, rufous turtle doves, and brown-eared bulbuls filled the still-bare branches of the trees and the rooftops with their chortling and cries, all getting ready for the hunkering down of spring. Grass lizards poked out of the cracks in the garden wall to sun themselves and a lone sulphur butterfly fluttered past the back door and nosed through the organic clutter of my unkempt garden, amidst the only greenery in the immediate neighborhood. The first hint of warmer months to come was getting off to a good start.
With my diabetes acting up lately, making me feel more exhausted than usual, I opted out of my usual 10 kilometer run, and decided instead to go for a long-overdue stroll with my camera. I packed a shoulder bag with sketchbook, extra pens, my pocket notebook, a telephoto lens, a pair of binoculars, and a chocolate bar for low blood sugar emergencies. The excursion had no particular itinerary; I just wanted to get out to stretch my legs and have a looksee. Like the birds the warm wind was making me anxious to get outside and explore.
Any direction would have been fine, but almost without thinking I found myself beside the Noh River. For four years now I’d been watching its changing character, always heavily impacted by the combined encroaching of the apartment buildings and human population along its crowded and concrete-contained banks. I passed this way more out of necessity than for any abundance of natural things in the water and riverbed.
The water ran ankle deep as it does most of the year, a bare trickle. Flocks of spot-billed ducks and mallard ducks paddled in the deeper pools, keeping eyes out for people tossing bread crumbs. The smaller pintailed ducks that had wintered among the other ducks since last November had taken off for parts north, in the more comfortable climes of Siberia and Kamchatka. The vast winter flocks of the gray starlings had recently begun to break up into the smaller mating groups. Dusky thrushes still dashed along the grassy banks, though within a week or so they, too, would set off for the north. American painted slider turtles, pets that had been released from captivity after they had grown too big for their caretakers, basked on stones at the river’s edge, and huge gray carps patrolled the murky brown riverbed, lazily muscling among the dozing duck flocks.
My whole morning had been spent in front of the computer so it took a while for my eyes to adjust to noticing potential photographs. For the first part of the walk I mostly just drank in the fresh air. Other pedestrians, many of them sneezing incessantly from the clouds of cedar pollen that yearly invades Tokyo from the surrounding mountains, jogged and quick-walked along the footpath along the river, so I descended to the trail along the riverbank itself and waded through old dried stands of reeds. My shoes caught in the stiff bracken, sometimes tripping me up, but it was quiet here and I could stop with less self-consciousness to examine the tiny flowers and the fritillary butterflies that flashed their colors here and there.
I got so caught up in kneeling into the grass to take photographs of tiny, violet flowers, that I lost track of time. Before I knew it I had wandered a little further than I had intended and had to hurry to get back home in time to get ready for my evening job. I clambered back up to the paved footpath above and upped the pace. A chilly wind had stirred up and clouds began to close in from the west.
I was nearing the last section of the river before I had to turn away and head to my apartment when I noticed two jungle crows… the huge, raven-sized crows that have taken over Tokyo… harassing a lone, female spot-billed duck in the water. Oddly the duck refused to budge and instead sat huddled right inside the flowing water. The crows pecked at it and attempted to pull away feathers. The duck swiveled its head in weak attempts to drive off the crows, but other than that it didn’t attempt to get away.
Concerned I backtracked to the nearest emergency stairway, descended back to the river bank, and made my way over to where the duck lay two meters from the edge of the river. It was too far to reach. The duck made no attempt to flee, though normally spot-billed ducks always put at least five meters distance between themselves and me. The crows flew off to the treetops overlooking the river, joining a group of other crows peering down.
I squatted by the riverside, watching the duck and trying to figure out what I could do. She was obviously very weak; her head swayed unsteadily and when I moved she worked her bill in a silent mime of quacking, no sound coming out. Occasionally she shook her head as if trying to clear her vision or concentrate, but then she would drift off again into listlessness. I thought perhaps the white plastic bag that had wrapped around her tail feathers might be the culprit for her predicament, but the water moved it away somewhat and I realized that the duck must be sick or badly injured.
Just then the air above me erupted with the racket of a hundred or more crows cawing at me and at one another. I looked up and saw the air above the opposite bank of the river and above my head swarming with the black wings of crows. For a split second it felt as if it were me they were after and whose name they were calling. I glanced back down at the duck and a great sadness filled me. She watched me unsteadily, silently quacking at me to back away.
I didn’t know what to do. There is no animal rescue that I have ever heard of in Japan that could have been called for just this situation. Just to go home and seek the information would have taken so much time that when I got back the crows would already have done their job. I contemplated swathing the duck in my windbreaker and bringing her home, but I knew nothing about caring for a wild duck. And what if she were sick? I evaluated the water, only ankle deep, thinking that it would be so easy to just take off my shoes and wade barefoot into the water to retrieve her, but I didn’t budge. I glanced at my watch and realized that I had no more time to waste here; I had to get home and get ready for work. So I stood up and backed away from the edge of the water. Then I thought, I must do something to remember the situation and how I felt. Drawing out my camera I knelt along the bank and took two shots of the duck. She quacked at me silently.
I walked back up the emergency stairs to the promenade above.
Looking back up at the crows I justified my actions by telling myself that the crows were doing their job just as they were meant to. The duck would be dead by the next morning, her bones picked clean. The duck was too weak to survive much longer and hopefully the crows would play their role quickly. I headed home, glancing back only once. In the glare of the evening sun reflected on the surface of the river I could make out her silhouette, alone and waiting. I wasn’t there to help, and neither were her flock mates. The whole world had abandoned her.
Except the crows. They waited in the treetops as the wind picked up. Waited and cawed and watched me walk away.
13 replies on “Murder of Crows”
Knowing it’s the only thing to do doesn’t make it any easier, does it?
Heart wrenching …and beautiful.
I want to say trust you to notice such a tragic gem of an incident. But I notice those things too and I hate the helplessness that goes with witnessing a scenario which doesn’t have a part written into it for one to act in a way which would leave one feeling like one had made one small positive contribution in amongst the random. Actually I jumped in the canal to save a duck during the last disastrous mating season and it didn’t help other than I became more familiar with the canal bed.
Very moving – not least because I too ususally try to find justifications in these circumstances not to help. When I am with my wife she always leaps in to help whatever the circumstances and I end up feeling guilty.
Last year however, because was with my kids and felt more of an obligation to “do the right thing”, we a duck who had been hit by a car.
Who know what will happen next time ….
Sorry for having typed that last comment with my fists! How many spelling mistakes can a person make in a five line comment?
Euan, plsaee don’t fert aobut somehting like taht! Stduies hvae sohwon taht as lgon as the frist and lsat ltetres are cotrrcet rdeares hvae no pobrolem rdaenig waht is wirtetn. I’m just happy that you’re here. Feel free to make yourself at home and make as many mistakes as you like!
That is so sad and there is nothing worse than the helpless feeling it leaves you with.
I live around lots of wrenching animal-on-animal killings. Cats, mice, birds, hawks, chickens to protect, frogs, deer, hunters, foxes, legal foothold traps in farmfields, roadkill. I have tried to save a few, hate the feelings when I can’t. Last spring we watched by the side of a canal as a pitbull dog swam after canadian geese with their babies, picking them off one by one, no one could stop the dog, it swam so fast.
That was BEAUTIFUL, harsh, but beautiful. Nature is Harsh, but Mama does know how to take care of her own. I am soooooo glad you are back, I have missed reading your nature walks.
Thanks, Basha and Mary Lou. Good to see you here. One thing that is interesting and funny about asking people to sign up for leaving comments: almost all the people who have signed up are women. Only two men. Now this can only mean a few things. That there are many more women than men in blogging. That men in general don’t like or are uncomfortable with what I write. That I am a woman and therefore what I write appeals more to women ( though, last time I checked I was definitely a man ). That men don’t really exist in any great numbers. That the Department of Homeland Security screens out any potentially harmful and easily influenced visitors to my site… meaning men. Or that my blogging software inadvertantly causes all commenters to appear female, unless the male commenters possess particularly virile qualities.
Strange. When I was younger I despaired of ever being popular enough to be surrounded by women ( well, I never really wished for it, either… ). Now, here I am, and I’m complaining?
There’s so little one can do for wild creatures in extremity. One’s very presence is a source of great stress to them.
Along with all the other Wimmin Of Teh Intarnets, I’m glad to see you back online again. You’ll just have to live with the popularity issues. 🙂
Nature is poetry. The ultimate meaning is usually beyond human understanding.