Caw blimey
I diverted along a quiet path on Peckham Rye. Quiet except for the cawing of a crow, on repeat and sounding calamitous.
I stopped to ask the cause. Was I in need of a chat? Perhaps. But this was one-sided; I resumed my walk.
I had not got far when I was struck at the back of my head. I turned to see crow’s ebony wings close like the arms of an Irish dancer as it alighted on a branch.
I picked up my pace but crow dive-bombed again. I pulled on the hood of my parka and ran to the road, which imprudently I tore across.
Hello Crow, what do you know? was a greeting I sometimes addressed to strutting corvids. These days I ask this of myself.
