The crows protested when I let out the dogs. It was early morning – actually less than morning – still night. But this is the time when I feel the most productive – in the early morning hours before the sun lifts above the ridge line to the east. So, the dogs and I got up. Before the first light hit the valley.

The crows have made the backyard their home.

They had let out raucous shrieks when the dogs descended upon the fenced yard. The dogs were running to the fence line up north to see if the neighbor’s new puppy had come out to play. I have come to call the new pup Rufus. I don’t know his real name, the name my neighbors have given him. We don’t speak much, for there is quite a bit of distance between us.

I wonder if the crows disturb them too. The crows seem have set up shop only on my property. I didn’t invite them. They just decided that this is where they would stay. I have looked for a nest in the trees, but none has revealed itself. But they are always loitering about this patch of grass and rock just to the south of the little garden that is walled in to protect from the deer.

But the crows caw at the deer too. They just cannot stomach sharing their territory. They dive-bomb the deer, whenever they get a chance. I have seen it with my own eyes.

I will count the number of crows this morning when light returns to the valley. There must be half a dozen of them. I have no idea why they have decided to take up residence here, where all their claim to the property comes from. There was a white crane that used to fly into the front yard, time and again. I had no understanding of what it was doing here either. Cranes like the water and there is no water to speak of up on this ridge. The surface water just doesn’t exist anymore. There used to be tree frogs by the hundreds when I was growing up on this ridge, but now it is hard to find a single one. I sometimes chalk up this dearth of tree frogs to my own perspective – how I have changed over the years, having become less connected to the patterns of nature. I have grown up. Maybe it is inevitable. I am not so close to the ground anymore. I don’t venture out for an afternoon of exploring, of just playing in the natural environment. Finding tree frogs seemed easy then, along with catching blue bellied lizards and uncovering a king snake, once or twice, hiding between rocks.

But no amount of detachment from the natural world would deny the crows’ existence or push them to the periphery of my awareness. Their calls persisted through the early hours of night, just when I was trying to sleep and then resumed well before daybreak. They were constant reminders of the natural world invading the cultivated space I had set up for myself. Well, in all honesty, the reverse is true. I have been the invader upon the natural world. But still, the cawing feels like the march song of an army charging at my little plot of land.

So, I decided to give into their calls this morning, to reckon with what they were trying to tell me. Why were they hovering about my land – and such a specific patch of it? They coveted this little incline just to the west of the living room windows. What had they stumbled upon that made this plot of land so attractive? Maybe their urge to locate themselves here spoke to something I had long forgotten and needed to remember. I needed to heed their call.

Coincidentally, I have been finding crow feathers on my runs over the ridge line for the past two days. The runs are a daily occurrence. And I am always on the lookout for feathers as I run. It passes the time, and it is a motivation that gets me over the steepest inclines. If I can just keep my head down, scanning for the detail of a feather lost in the brush below my feet, then I can find the breath to get up those hills. I liken this exercise to the discipline of the creative endeavor.

Every day, we must make some forward progress. We must lace up our artistic running shoes and hit the trail. Our search for feathers – or those moments of creative insight – are just a happy off-shoot of our daily run. We won’t find those sparks of inspiration unless we run the race. Unless we encourage ourselves to settle into our writing desk, or stand in front of our easels, or ponder the length of the dancer’s barre on a regular basis.

I think that is what these crows have been reminding me. To remain ever-hopeful that in the next session with the creative endeavor that something beautiful will arrive at my artistic threshold. Like a feather floating downward in the wind. Manna from heaven.