I hear him cawing outside my bathroom window. It’s the first time I sense life in our backyard since the trees and shrubs were brutally hacked away a few months ago by an insensitive workman. The caw—AHH, AHH, AHH—always three times, as if the crow insists that I should come out.
“Hello.” I call. Then surprisingly, a string of musical notes runs up a scale. Is it by the same crow? He caws again. Yes, it is.
The air outside is warm and balmy, rare for us who live up on the San Francisco hill. My black and shiny feathered friend hops down the street when he finds me watching him. I say hello again. He cocks his head. I wish I know bird talk.
