The Dance of the Crows

Eva Yerbabuena

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This is the season when many birds begin their mating and nesting rituals; some, in fact, have been at it for a month or so already. While mating is not the last thing on my mind during the freezing season, it is so far down the list right now that it might as well be. All I can think of lately is staying warm while trying to make my fuel oil supply last as long as possible. ...

Not so the other crows, the feathered ones; the True-hearts. Several times in the last couple of weeks I’ve watched their prelude to The Dance, that elegant, persistent and endearing ritual of bonding and avian seduction I look forward to each winter.

It seems to begin with The Strut, a behavior easily overlooked because it is so common. (I say ‘seems to begin’ because this is the first behavior I notice. They could have been chatting about this for weeks before I started paying attention.) Crows don’t walk so much as they strut wherever they go; swagger, even – especially when they’re cawing and walking at the same time.

The male (I’m making another assumption here, because I have no way of knowing which bird is male and which is female) holds himself as erect as crow physiology will allow, which drops his tail, and sticks out his chest. He struts near the female, but doesn’t appear to look at her. She doesn’t give him the time of day; turns away in a coquettish manner. The seasoned male persists in his antics, drawing a little closer with each rebuff.

She continues turning away, but she begins to look over her shoulder for a split second before he’s completely out of sight. Eventually, he’s close enough to look her in the eye and stay with her, step for step, as she turns this way and that. He doesn’t block her way, just insists on being close at hand...wing, I guess; close at wing.

The Dance picks up tempo when the male bows toward the female and begins to flutter his wings ever so slightly. His behavior now reminds me of the juveniles who have grown big enough to leave the nest, but who still beg food from their parents and from the older sibling who stayed behind to assist with the new clutch.

She bows, then throws her head back, makes a gurgling sound and flutters half-heartedly toward the male. He back-steps from his partner and bows lower still, wings at half-mast flutter this time. He stomps three or four times in rapid succession, como el flamenco, then abruptly stops.

Neither bird moves for half a minute or so.

She breaks the stalemate, turning away from him, this time with no backwards glance. He stands still for a few seconds longer before shaking himself, quickly checking for something in his wing-pits. (Do crows have b.o.?)

Caw-CAW! He has her number. She betrayed her interest in him with her flutter and her bow. He starts over. His caw this time is long and low, almost a growl.

“It is only a matter of time, Corazón, until you are mine!”

She shakes her tail and ruffles her feathers, ignoring his caws and his strutting. She extends her wings out to the sides of her body, her primaries splayed like the fringe on the flamenca’s montone. Her action is an invitation: he accepts.

The Dance of the Crows goes on.

(All rights reserved. Martha McLemore 2009)