It’s past 3AM. My body is curled tightly under blankets, and my chest lightly rises and falls, dancing to the rhythms of twilight.
But, INSTANTLY, I’m up. Covers thrown. Body stretched into an X across the mattress. Heartbeat accelerated. They’re here, and the clamor cannot be ignored.
In October, something eerie happened. Haunted by the ghosts of Poe and Lenore, an influx of birds invaded my lil community. Each night, hundreds of crows traveled miles to roost in the trees above our restaurants, above our grocery store, and adjacent to my apartment. The cawing is deafening, as if bird brothers are pecking out each other’s eyes. I woke up three or four times a night, worried that Hitchcock’s classic had come to fruition.
I’m self-aware-enough to know that I’m dramatic. I’m also someone who lives for a good story. So, as I relayed my cawnflict to friends and family, I saw raised eyebrows, widened eyes. My words could not accurately capture this midnight torture.
However, the crows were evening problems while pigeons invaded the daylight. Even the Bird Lady from Mary Poppins would have been disgusted by these rats with wings. Their bodies occupied crosswalks and streets. I knew my distaste for the birds wasn’t mine alone when I witnessed not one – but two – pugnacious drivers honk at pigeons in hopes they would flutter away. When the stubborn pigeons failed to fly, each driver committed a violent crime. I can still hear the weight of the car, the crunch of the bird under the tire. A collective gasp from us onlookers. Fowl play.
The birdens continued, for the crows and pigeons SHIT everywhere. Slimy, white feces cover sidewalks and benches. As the weather grew colder, the community workers could no longer power wash away the poop for fear of turning everything to Elsa ice. Slipping on patches of ice seemed more daunting than walking on guano.
Feeling frustrated, and being one who likes to problem-solve, I conducted research. Did I Google “how to poison birds” at work? Yes, but I quickly realized that becoming Abby Brewster would be an expensive and difficult venture, not to mention a hefty fine and time in prison. If I’m serving, it won’t be for a murder of crows. I have shot a BB gun before, and I imagined myself perched at my window, the Lee Harvey Oswald (too soon?) of birds. That seemed aggressive, more so than the pigeon hit and run. Dad suggested I contact local falconers. He relayed how falcons are often brought to the Jersey shore to help “manage” the seagulls and pigeons. I smiled at the thought of seeing the food chain cycle happen right outside my window.
I know my complaints fell on deaf ears for months, and friends and family waited for me to eat crow. But, a week before winter break, I received the most validating and satisfying email of my life. The manager of my apartment complex shared that BIRD CANNONS had been rented by our community in hopes of “humanely” ridding us of crows and pigeons. I envision someone dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte standing on top of the parking garage next to the cannon, squawking orders in French. As the cannon explodes, Napoleon plugs his ears and then jumps in (arc de) triumph. Simultaneously, thousands of birds take to the air, fleeing for their lives. Unfortunately, I wasn’t around when shots were fired, but, over the past six weeks, there has been a 50% reduction of bird troubles.
Another moment of validation arrived via text the other night when my friend Courtney, dining at the local Mexican restaurant, said, “Oh my god the crows!” Can there be no peace when eating a quesadilla?
Some nights, I sleep through, unbothered by the caws. Other nights, I sleepwalk to my living room window and stare at the crows roosting in the tree. I lightly tap on the glass, wondering if I’m disturbing their peace.
