In October 2019 I wrote about the moment when I realized that I can tell the difference between a fish crow and an American crow. Here’s the short version: A fish crow sounds like a crow, but instead of saying “caw!” it says “uh-uh.” I heard a crow say “uh-uh.” Eureka! Fish crow!
The almost three years since October 2019 have been pretty weird. I don’t love the concept of pandemic silver linings, because the pandemic has been so awful in so many ways. But for me, a lot of good things have come from this time, too. And one of them is way more awareness of bird songs.
It started in the earliest days of the pandemic, when the only thing I could do to get away from my home/office every day was to take walks around my neighborhood. With less sound from cars, the trees nearby were revealed to be filled with bird song, and I started wondering what I was hearing.
I knew some before the pandemic. I had mourning dove down, and wood thrush, and mockingbird. But that weird spring and summer of 2020, I figured out some more. Robin. Murderous blue jay. And how had I lived most of my life in cardinal territory without knowing what they sound like? I don’t know, but I did it. I learned the Eastern wood-pewee and the white-throated sparrow.
The learning really picked up in the summer of 2021, on a visit to northern Michigan. That’s the first time I tried out the app Merlin, which can identify birds by song – and right away, it told me that the weird gull-like sound I’d been hearing from the tree tops was, fittingly, a merlin. Suddenly, my bird-song-learning accelerated. I could ask my phone what I was hearing and get an immediate answer. I learned that red-eyed vireos are everywhere. I learned that blue jays make a vast array of different sounds. And, after many repetitions, I finally learned that if something is singing a loud, fast three-note song in D.C. or Maryland, it’s a Carolina wren. It’s always a Carolina wren.
This level of knowledge isn’t very impressive. I am personally acquainted with people who could stand under a tree in spring and name all of the migratory warblers overhead, while I’d be going, “hey! guys! I think I hear a robin!”
But this level of knowledge is incredibly satisfying.
On Saturday, I came out of my local grocery store and was starting the walk home when I heard a call overhead. It had that nasal scratchiness of a crow. It was a single syllable, not the characteristic “uh-uh,” but somehow, I knew it was a fish crow. I scrabbled around in my bag, under the bulk peanuts, and extracted my phone. Merlin agreed. I’d recognized a fish crow by its voice. I stood there a while by the busy intersection, marveling at this big black bird perched up there on the utility pole, making its dinosaur sounds. The crow eventually spit out an “uh-uh,” like it was supposed to.
It’s just a crow. But it’s also a sign: All that listening and learning I did over the past few years made the world around me a little more interesting, a little more detailed, a little more real. Here’s to learning lots more bird songs as I go.
Photo: Helen Fields
Also… crows are awesome.