crowbath

Four crows just took baths in the lake, and now they are arrayed in the sun, each to its own piling, preening and warming.

First there was one, standing on the sand over on the little beach at Ruotsala's camp. This crow walked along the little wave edges for a bit, sometimes bouncing and running, but mostly just walking slowly back and forth. It put its foot into the water, pulled it back, and then put in its other foot. Then it waded a bit, keeping its belly above the water, tilting its head to eye the water. It sipped a bit, too, and then was sloshing in the water dipping its head in and out and rubbing its feathers together with splashes, shaking its wings and tail feathers, rolling side to side, bouncing.

When three more crows cawed their ways on down from the white pine, the first crow flew up to a piling. The new three repeated what the first had done, walking the edge, then wading, then splashing. They looked like tentative round old people until they splashed. Each took its own time, and the last one splashed the most vigorously. Before it flew up to its piling it looked to me almost as though it had rolled completely over in the water, but that would probably be giving up too much crow control and dignity.

I'd like to spread out beach towels for them all, and distribute drinks with paper umbrellas, but I really should go back to the revisions to the textbook cover.