Crow-walkPosted: January 11, 2011
It’s seven-thirty in the morning, snowing again, and the oak trees are solid white now. I’m sitting in my office window looking out at the icy, snowy street and the squirrels scampering about the island, digging in the snow, darting up a trunk.
And there are crows out there — big black crows. I put some bird seed in the street between my yard and the island a few days ago, and they are still pecking around on it. I watch one walk toward my house, and I laugh out loud.
Have you ever watched a crow walk? Her feet go down one in front of the other, she sways back and forth, and in her tight-fitting sleek feathered sheath, it looks like she is swinging her hips, if she has any hips. It’s what we used to call “prissing.”
I remember back in junior high, upon seeing a girl walk down the hall, making a point to priss, to swing her hips as wide as she could, my friends and I would say while looking down our noses at her, “Shake it, honey, but don’t break it, it took nine months to make it.”
Then, I guess, the opportunity being right, we’d do it, too.