Neighbor Roost
Birds Overheard: Issue 3
Some crows moved into the juniper near my building, and for the past few weeks their celebrations and squabbles have captured the block’s attention. At times it’s difficult to think of anything else, particularly around six o’clock, when the crows return from work and begin to gossip at the highest volume their voices can sustain. A few of our fussier neighbors have complained about the racket (the Phoebe family seems especially alarmed), but I don’t mind. On a street where most folks keep to themselves, it’s nice to have some community feeling, and although I haven’t been invited to the party yet, I can still enjoy it from a distance.
Like many who call San Diego home, crows arrived recently from somewhere else. Few lived within the city limit before 1980, since their preferred roosting trees don’t grow here natively, but as San Diego’s housing market boomed, crows’ fortunes soared with it. New development lined with jacaranda and eucalyptus offered both abundant housing and convenient access to civic amenities such as freshly-mowed lawns (insect buffets), overflowing trash bins, and a bewildering number of well-meaning residents who still believed, despite this cornucopia, that crows needed charitable donations. In the rush to subdivide and conquer, developers rolled out the red carpet for corvids, and San Diego’s crow population has been going gangbusters ever since. They’ve achieved such ubiquity here that many folks barely think of them as wildlife. Like pigeons or Bachelorette hopefuls, they seem an inevitable part of the landscape, only drawing attention when large groups materialize around Pacific Beach or North Park. Step outside anywhere in San Diego, and you’ll probably spot at least one crow going about its business.
What business, exactly? We might never fully unspool that thread. I once spent a few weeks filming crow behavior for a nature documentary, and if they weren’t so intent on avoiding the camera, I’m convinced these birds could have headlined their own show. They eat eggs and chicks from other nests, steal pet food, collect trinkets like rusty screws, and generally cause mayhem. They’re also team players: at least one crow keeps watch from a nearby tree while the others forage. I’ve seen crows kick shorebirds off a sandbar in the San Diego River Estuary so they could muck around at low tide. After it rains, they’ll visit clogged storm drains for a spa day. Earlier this year, someone on Reddit filmed a crow ripping bird spikes off a condo in North Park. A few weeks later, it filed a complaint with the local zoning board.
Of all the hijinks crows get up to, their winter commute is easily the most spectacular. In the colder months, they gather near Plaza Bonita Mall to roost in trees that grow from the Sweetwater River flood control channel. Every morning, just before first light, the chorus begins. Thousands of silhouettes wing out from the darkness of the stand, gathering black among bare branches. They fill the sycamores on the riverbank until you can’t imagine how another bird could land; then they explode across the sky. In the evening, they return from their mischief, their numbers ascending as they approach the roost. I often see them from traffic, flocking above the freeway, perhaps as a navigational aid. Wherever I’m going, they always seem to arrive ahead of me.
Birds Overheard is a column and linocut series published in Mail Mag, a monthly zine by Burn All Books.
