It's strange to think about, because for the sixteen years my family lived in Chicago, I couldn't stir a step without coming across a crow. And when we moved to Texas, the crows were there too---in much fewer numbers, granted, but still perching in our trees. When I moved into my apartment, however, there were no crows. Mockingbirds, Mourning Doves, sparrows, and the occasional Blue Jay, but no crows.

I didn't really realize how much I missed them until they weren't there. Mockingbirds squeaked and screeched and honked and Mourning Doves cooed as I woke in the morning and walked to and from my apartment, but the caws I grew up with were entirely absent. Then about a month ago, I was reading a book about corvids when I realized the caws I was hearing weren't in my imagination, called forth by the book I was reading; they were outside. I thought perhaps the mockingbirds had picked up a new song to mimic, but when I stepped onto the porch to locate the source, I found a crow wheeling in and out of one of the live oaks, those beautifully familiar black wings spread against the air.

Now I see, and hear, them all the time. I think we only have two---perhaps a mated pair---and I know they're probably driving everyone in my apartment complex crazy, perching on chimneys and crowing their good mornings, but every time I see them, I want to smile and caw back at them, wondering if they'd know I'm delighted they're here, that I hope they'll stay.