Chasing the Muse

By Catharine Cooper

 

For The Coastline Pilot

August 5, 2002

 

 

“The raven is cautious, but he is thorough.  He will sense your peaceful intentions. Let him have the first word.  Be careful:  he will tell you he knows nothing.”

-       Barry Holstun Lopez

 

The third time I hear the thud on my studio porch, my curiosity is more than piqued. Flung from somewhere in the air, another stone like glob falls to earth. What and where are these black moldy seed pods coming from?

 

.And then I see him.  The raven.  Sitting tall on the railing, peering cautiously in the window as I work.  The turn of my head startles him.  He takes wing across Third Street to the tall trees that shelter the free clinic.  He studies me from that distance.

 

I step outside and discover the source of the noise.  Another walnut.  Slowly, I understand that it is the raven who has been flinging these nuts onto my porch in hopes that they will crack open.  His most recent attempt remains intact.  As he watches, I retrieve a hammer and softly smack the shell.  The nut splits in two perfect pieces.  I set them on the railing in clear view of my dark winged friend and wait.

 

My mentor and friend, Gene used to argue with me about crows and ravens.  We were teaching photography in the midst of Death Valley to students hungry for rocks and sand.  The ravens parked on the periphery of our campsite, listening to our stories, hopeful of discovering misplaced food.  Late night ramblings about f-stops always ended in identification disagreements.  “West of the Mississippi,” Gene would declare, “are ravens.  Crows live to the east.” This, of course, is not true.   Sibleys’ Guide to Birds clearly places both species in the same local terrain, but the argument persists.

 

Raven or crow?  Ravens are larger and lankier with a heavy beak and a deeper voice.  Crows usually travel in small groups and feed on the ground.  Crows most commonly make a carrr or caw sound, while ravens, with more vocal variation, can be heard to call out kraah, or brrronk.

 

Ravens fill the waterway of the Grand Canyon.  On my recent sojourn, they entertained everyone with their stealth and theft antics.  On the list of stolen items:  ibuprofen, underwear, anti-depressants and hormones.  I expect to return one day to a cross-dressed, laid back, pain-free highly sexual flock of birds. 

 

In the canyon, raven stories abound, both anecdotal, and those read by guides and passengers.  One night, Sam, read from Barry Holstun Lopez’s short story, “The Raven.” “There are no crows in the desert,” he read. “What appear to be crows are ravens.”  Can anybody get this right? 

 

I have both ravens and crows in my neighborhood.  The crows keep trying to nest on my roof. They come in pairs, in flocks, they jabber with one another, but they never light on my railing.

 

The raven waits and watches.  Solitary and patient.  I sit motionless within my studio with equal patience.  Then, with long winged strides, he leaves his perch and flaps to the deck.  He lights quietly, leaving the fruit untouched until he is sure that I am not a threat.  His strong dark legs move delicately to the nut.  With sharp beak, he pecks at the fruit, pulling it from the casing.  One last glance at me and he wings over the hilltop and out of range.

  . 

In the morning, a long dark feather, black with violet tinges, rests on my studio doorstep.  Random chance?  Or did he come, my new friend, bearing a gift.  A thank you for the hammered fruit.  For patience and my understanding.  

 

“Put all this to the raven: he will open his mouth as if to say something.  Then he will look the other way and say nothing.”  - Lopez

 

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