The first crows pass over when the evening light gilds the trees. They fly alone or in loose groups, taking dips and detours at will. Some caw and spin aerials in the warm, uncrowded sky. 

Young singletons showing off. 

Duncan prefers to travel with the scatterlings, who are quiet and keep to themselves. He recalls having to explain the difference to Cloud as she approached mating age. Singletons have families and territories but choose to strike out on their own. Scatterlings have no choice, having lost both. They’re usually older and male, living cautiously on the edges, belonging nowhere. In the simplest terms, singletons are celebrated; scatterlings are shunned. 

A family group of older siblings flies over, trading short caws back and forth. He waits until they pass and then he lifts off, flying diagonally across the zoo and the tight grid of streets and buildings of the South Bronx. He trains his eyes on green. He knows every grass- and tree-covered patch between the zoo and the roost. The lawns of Central Park are popular stops. While others drop down for pre-roost social hour, he continues southwest, threading his way through the tallest buildings and spires, their windows shining like insect eyes. The giant woman marks the halfway point of the most daunting part of the journey. In a city surrounded by water, crows learn early that they are better fliers than swimmers. It’s always a relief to reach Staten Island with its green resting places, including a puny zoo in the northeast corner. His destination is on the south end, past the giant expanse of garbage and its swarming seagulls. Hard to believe Fresh Kills used to be even larger. Were it winter, he might stop there for a bite, but spring is a season of plenty with genuinely fresh food options. The roost itself isn’t a bad foraging spot with its trees, marshes, and grass. 

A goodly number of crows already dot the fields and the bordering birch trees, meeting, greeting, gossiping, trading news. Sprinkled among their black silhouettes are the grays and whites of pigeons and those gulls that have managed to tear themselves away from the garbage. Harder to spot are the stray travelers, birds who fly great distances to mate or escape winter’s cold. He once met a small yellow bird whose flight from a place called Columbia made his trip to the roost look like a yawn. The bird told Duncan that his long journey to the mating grounds was nearly over. He was as happy as he was thin. 

Duncan claims a spot toward the top of a tall beechnut tree, which sets off a reshuffle of birds beside and below him. He picks up snippets of several conversations going on at once, including the usual complaints about the heat. 

White house . . . dog food . . . hot . . . itch like . . . nestlings . . . dry . . . worms . . . 

He angles in closer and, asking around, finally pieces together a coherent story about a woman and a girl in a white house who feed crows all they can eat in dog food. They’re so regular, one crow brings them gifts.

“Where is this place? Is it safe?” he asks the crow next to him, who asks the crow below him, and so on. Finally, the answer comes back. “North Queens, near the marsh. And yes, it’s become a regular—and safe—feeding place.” 

Duncan isn’t sure the information is worth taking back to his parents. His mother doesn’t allow the nestlings to eat “human food,” and Queens is well beyond their foraging range. But he likes the sound of all-you-can-eat. He moves to other trees to drop in on other conversations: about nesting dangers, the unusually warm spring, lawns with sprinklers, and much scattered he/she gossip and high spirits, including one crow mimicking the bobbing strut of a friend. 

Alarm calls. 

They’re coming from a circle of young crows gathered around a single bird on the field below. He flies down to investigate. A young female sits on the turf, unmoving, her feathers fluffed out and beak open. What’s wrong with her? He nudges himself into the inner circle of birds. 

“What’s happening?” he asks the crow next to him.

“Not sure. She fell, and now she can’t get up. Could have gotten into something.”

The something wasn’t poison. She isn’t jerking and shaking with movements not her own. Nor is she heaving up her gut. Duncan offers none of this knowledge to the bird next to him. 

“A pity,” the bird says. “She’s so young.” 

“Yes.” Duncan wishes the bird well and flies back into the trees. Below him, the crows gathered around the sick bird gradually fall silent as the skies grow dark. Then they, too, fly into the trees to roost, leaving her behind. Night comes, and with it, quiet. 

First light reveals a large gathering of crows around the body. Birds take turns walking up to it before flying off to their respective foraging grounds. Duncan sees no need to check the corpse himself—it holds no clues—though he will report the death to his family.

His gut sounds a hollow complaint, reminding him of the chatter he’d heard the night before of a white house and a dog-food buffet. Should he risk it? Other crows are heading toward Queens, and he needs to feed himself before foraging for the nestlings. Why go to the roost if not to take advantage of the information shared there? He lifts off, joining the others.