When I lived with my late husband on 40 acres in the middle of
the rolling hills in Northern California, Y or I would offer prayers
of gratitude each morning with food we saved from our plates the day
before. We would empty the food offering bowl with a thump to remove
particles stuck at the bottom onto an old board on the ground next to
the garden fence. As we turned away, at least one, usually two
ravens would touch down behind us. If we hesitated in our step,they
would dance with jitters. But after a few years, they tolerated our
presence and went on about their business of checking everything we
had left there.
If I removed
the fat from a chicken before or after cooking it, I would make this
into an extra treat for these huge black birds. Whether I cut it into
small pieces or not, they would fill their beaks and transport the
fatty skin to their caches in the ground or in holes in a tree. I
understand they have good memories and can retrieve their 'saves'
during food-scarce times. Once, one had so much in its beak it
couldn't take off so it climbed onto a rock and tried to take off
again. It still couldn't get air-borne so it dropped its mouthful,
ate some, packed the rest into its beak again, and was finally able
to fly.
I guess
because I had read Edgar Allen Poe's poem about ravens or because
they are depicted as portenders of death and disease, I assumed them
to be of a serious nature. That is until one day I heard our black
Labrador, Sapa, barking. This dog rarely barked, even at strangers,
so when I heard her barking, then a long stretch of silence, then
another bout of barking, I got curious.
She was lying
at the base of a tree looking up. Two ravens were sitting there on
branches. One took flight, dropped close to her, and trailed its
claws across her rump. Up Sapa jumped barking to chase the raven to a
next tree while the second raven chased after her. I watched these
antics and laughed at this crazy game they had designed between them.
One time I
tried to defend the food from a meandering flock of wild turkeys who
had discovered the vegetable leftovers on the board. (Ravens rarely
eat greens, especially broccoli.) Every morning I chased the turkeys
away until I realized the ravens weren't coming to claim the
offering. I waited and watched the turkeys push and shove each other
to get near the small spot of food. The ravens stood at their edge
until one turkey turned and noticed them. Then the others opened
their circle and made space between them for the ravens to join.
We often
heard our resident ravens clucking or clicking to each other. They
even cooed in spring. We watched them teach their youngsters to fly
and saw them tolerate a group of noisy adolescents hang out on the
land one summer.
Several years
ago, after we had returned from our summer wanderings, we noticed
only one raven coming to eat. Because we had been aware of the
couple, I had a feeling this one was the female. Something had
happened, and she was alone. One day, she came to acknowledge the
bits I had placed outside, but her behavior was unusual. She ate some
then wandered the yard, ate some more then wobbled to the front of
the green house. After another bite of food, she checked out the side
of the garden. With the last of the food in her beak, she ambled past
the front porch, dropped her mouthful in front of the steps leading
to the upper driveway. She picked it up again, then hopped onto the
first step only to saunter around the next and climb the path next to
the stairs. She continued up the driveway, walking slowly, turning
her head from side to side until she was out of my sight. She never
came back.
About a week
later, another couple moved in.
After Y
passed away and I left the land, I missed my prayer and
offering routine. I lived for a year in a home where I had to do my
landlady's routine and really felt more than disconnected from my
winged friends. Now I am returning to old habits as I have more
privacy, plus I like the feeling I get when I say 'thank you' every
morning.
This morning
I placed about a quarter cup of food bits onto the wooden top of an
old well in my small front yard. I've been doing this off and on for
two weeks. I had no expectations when I began this routine again. But
wouldn't you know, as I was sitting in my office, camouflaged behind
a tangle of rose bushes in front of my window, I heard a raven caw
from the roof of the house in front of me. He/she spent a long time
checking out the yard before swooping across the well top and picking
up a bite of the food in mid-flight. How did that raven know that
small bit of matter was even there?
And how did
they know so many years ago how to play with a dog? How did they learn about sharing food with other winged friends? Do they know how much
I've missed their presence in my life?
I hope they
know how full my heart feels that they've found me again.
