upon the voices of Family Black
It was their calling I noticed first. A hearing. A sound, a cawing as if with some familiarity. Perhaps they were cousins to Ebony, Ash and Midnight — offspring of my corvid friends Onyx and Obsidian, denizens of the tree temples that mark the southeastern corner of Fort Mason, where Bay meets Van Ness.
Some years ago now, I would take to stopping there to listen with them, perhaps to learn their Ravenish or Crowish lingo, as I'd bring ho'okupu of pine nuts, and peanuts-in-the-shell. It would always delight me to see them take the latter and bury them in precise locations nearby, surely to forage upon later on. It was when I learned of these creatures' phenomenal accounting of space and what must be their protean memories of it.
Months would pass, and whenever I would pass along their home range at that corner, they would recognize me, deep night or brightest day, no matter what I was wearing, cawing at me with what I could only infer as delight. I'd kraa back, having learned a few of their words, which I knew they'd appreciate. Why else would they flutter after me, aloft and above, on branch or on air or on eave of military housing?
Then I stopped seeing them for a while, and I thought they'd gone on to new home grounds; or, found new societies and individuals elsewhere. Which was fine. Their brood, I thought, stayed behind it seems; or, these may have just been cousins or other flockmates. Either way: Family Black, as I'd come to think of them.
Once in a while I'd peer at a passing or paused or standing corvid, hoping it would be Obsidian or Onyx, hoping to hear a familiar voice.
Like this morning, on my early constitutional, when I felt like I was being trailed by ghosts. At first heard, and then seen...
Family Black photograph 1 of 7