A Murder in South Tacoma
It was winter when I first encountered the murder. We passed by as I drove my daughter down 74th to school at Mount Tahoma. It was quite a shocking site. Bodies were everywhere, scattered across the gravel parking lot of the seasonal fruit stand, stacked upon the branches of the surrounding Gerry Oaks, and perched perfectly upon the power lines. These members were moving, pecking, prancing, hoping and flapping. Had our windows been down we’d have heard a cacophony of caws and crackles. No homicide here as you’ve likely already guessed, but a murder of Corvus brachyrhynchos more commonly known as the American Crow.
What are they doing here? Why so many and where do they go after the sun fully rises? I’m no crow expert, but as it so happens, such people do exist and they would say that we had driven through a regional roosting site. Each evening hundreds, sometimes thousands of crows gather for warmth, protection, to share information and to mate. Each roost is what Ellen Blackstone calls ‘a giant avian slumber party.’
As amazing as this site was (and is if you can catch them before sunrise), even more amazing is the fact that I didn’t see it. Mid-December wasn’t the first time I’d driven my daughter to school in the dark. I had passed through this tunnel of feathers, this great avian huddle many times, yet failed...to...notice. How could I have been so blind, so deaf?
I could blame this inhibited vision on my decision to switch from coffee to tea. I could say my mind was fixated on the mental list of daily tasks. I could also fault the voices of Brock and Salk and their daily Seahawk diatribe. Finding the distracting culprit ultimately doesn’t matter, because my eyes are now opened. Once you’ve seen a murder, you can’t unsee it. Even more, I don’t just see these messengers when I drive my daughter to school. I see them everywhere. They are ubiquitous. (Yes, I paid a whole quarter for that word.)
They’re strutting in the morning sun rays beneath the great firs of Manitou Park and swirling down from the Mulberry tree into my neighbor’s yard to look. I saw one boldly perch upon the carcass of a squirrel that did not make it across Puget Sound Avenue. It waited until the last moment to spring away from the approaching Mustang on a test drive. Even when not seen, I can hear them. Cawing, yes, but also cackling, clicking and what I’ve decided to name garckaling because it sounds like they’re gargling a box of gravel. I dare you to find one corner of this community where the crows don’t go. One day I decided to count. I saw no less than 76 of these winged creatures. They’re everywhere, a ubiquity of crows. I think I like that better than murder.
Ubiquity is a dangerous thing. That which appears everywhere soon ceases to get noticed anywhere: The evergreens, the park bench, the power lines and the blue skies. How often do we notice these things? Okay, scratch that last one. Replace it with ‘clouds’. I may see these things, but I don’t really notice them. But now the crows have arrived and they’re changing my vision. As they cross my path, I have not only started to see them, but also the path. I’m starting to notice my neighbor’s chain-link fence, the Cottonwood tree near 56th and Tyler as well as the relatively new playground near the STAR Center where a gaggle of kids are chasing each other. The crows, in a way, have become my neighborhood tour guides helping me pay attention to that which I usually miss. Their objects of attention are almost always the ordinary but every once in a while they’ll point their beaks at something unique.
“Hey dad,” my daughter said peering out the windshield as we drove through the tunnel of birds, “have you ever noticed the Christmas tree on top of that power pole?” “What? Is this some riddle?” “No,” she pointed up, past the power lines, above the oaks into the Tacoma Power substation. My eyes followed her finger up the tallest pole where sure enough, there it was. Tightly affixed to the top of this pole was a Christmas tree. “Huh? Wow. How do you think the crows got it up there?” She rolled her eyes loud enough for me to hear them, louder almost than the call of the crows.
