En route to meet a friend for coffee earlier this week, I spotted an extremely large hooded crow cawing noisily atop a trash can.
Cycling past, I put on my best crow voice and cawed back at him/her in a jovial manner. But apparently crows don’t know from jovial.
Seconds later, I was dive bombed. The crow took flight after my communication and then swooped down into my hair with its talons, attempting to embed and lift. It gave up – I ate a heavy breakfast that morning – and flew ahead of me to land on a tree branch.
I was gobsmacked. I stopped my bicycle and stared up into the tree.
Did that..? Was that…? OMG! Then I cursed at the thing in Hebrew because – just between us – I was frightened of riding away lest ‘ol humorless dive bomb me again. Eventually I collected myself and left.
I couldn’t help but remember an excerpt from Robyn Davidson’s Tracks describing a wild crow that played with her during her Australian camp-out by swooping down from a tree branch each morning and stealing her toothbrush just as she was about to pick it up.
Clever these fowl are. But not all that nice.