On Being Prepared, And The Perception Of Time

Late autumn has brought chill winds, scudding clouds and sharp showers. A definite improvement from the relentless rain and stormy winds of the previous few months, but still persistently grey and damp enough that ‘The Sun’ is something talked about like an ancient legend.

The crows had remained resolutely stoic and committed to their traditional avian lifestyle. Wet windy trees and a store of food to see them through winter. They had been caching food diligently for weeks. Crowdad in particular seemed suddenly obsessed with the food stash. He was back and forth like a feathered drug lord, beak full, tail twitching, behaving as though the sky was falling. Whatever was driving the frenzy, it also seemed to make him braver. He began loitering on The Wall, looking directly into the window, almost shivering with pent up anxiety. So I started taking top ups out to him on demand.

On one particular evening, third trip in, he landed on the wall as I was approaching. Tantalisingly close. I swear I could almost reach him. For a moment it looked like détente, bird and snack-witch finally at peace. Then I raised my head to check my placement and whoosh, he was gone, as if my gaze itself were a spell. Fine. I didn’t want to be friends anyway. He kept this up until it was almost completely dark, staring through the glass with that “hurry up, skivvy” expression that only corvids and toddlers can truly master. Very un-Crowdad behaviour. Maybe he knows something I don’t.

There must be some ancient bit of crow folklore about this. A restless crow at the window. Frantic caching. Impending doom. Judging by tonight’s frenzy, I’m investing in cocoa, candles, and emotional insulation!

As December rolled on, the crows began looking… a little hefty. I thought I’d overfed them until I learned that much of the apparent winter plumping is simply feathers being fluffed up for insulation. I have fed them well. They’re now puffed up, glossy, and waddling around like feathered gym bros. Where they used to leap effortlessly into flight, now they give a grunt, a thud, and a flurry of “dear god why” flaps. One even side-eyed me mid-takeoff, as if to say, “this is your fault.” Crow, once noticeably the largest due to his fledgling plumage, now looked positively svelte beside his two winged kettlebells.

The skies have quieted: no murmurations, no inter-species feuds. Everyone seems to be conserving calories. Just rooftop loitering near heater vents, feathers fluffed, glaring down at me like lazy gods awaiting tribute. And soon we’ll join them. Humans will also be switching to winter mode. Couch nesting. Pub roosting. Foraging in Aldi’s fluorescent tundra. Abandoning salads for carbohydrates that make us purr. We’re really not that different if you think about it, are we?

The birds have no need for time as we measure it. They rise and roost with the sun, not with the shrilling of an alarm. And they would never dream of leaving for work while it’s still night. I will continue to leave breakfast for the crows, but I won’t be around to see them enjoy it when the day dawns. But I will know that I’m still playing my part, and that they know it too. In this way we will all settle into the quiet of the winter season and await the arrival of spring.

At least I have fairy lights and Yuletide gatherings to brighten my days until the return of the light.

Now, where’s that Christmas CrowBarz recipe…