I have always noticed crows. When I was a child, they were in the cedar trees in my parents’ front yard, cawing & nesting. As a teen, I worked at the Still Creek Mickey Dee’s for a time and watched them every evening shift in the forest opposite the fast food joint, hordes of black swirling and triumphing with cries. I wept when the forest was torn down for a car dealership. The crows were disoriented, churned over the absence where they had gathered for years and years, perhaps centuries. I see them rooting up chafer beetles, overturning leaves, nabbing refuse and now, from my 14th floor balcony, swooping and dipping over the river towards a replacement roost in Burnaby. Crows: oscine, rupturous, a cacophony, a brilliance. Every night is crow-time for me.