In autumn, the crows begin their chorus. It is not a gentle birdsong but a racket—sharp, brassy, and impossible to ignore. They perch on wires like a row of judges, all in black robes, their beady eyes fixed on the world below. To them, every yard is a courtroom, every window a witness box, and every human a defendant.
They gather outside your window at dawn, when the light is still a gray bruise on the sky, and announce the morning like a town crier with no sense of tact. Caw. Caw. Caw. Each cry is a complaint—about the wind, about the neighbors, about you still being in bed.
But the truth is, the crows love autumn as much as poets do. The air sharpens, the ground softens, and the trees shed a banquet of acorns, walnuts, and insects hidden under crisp leaves. The crows know this season is theirs. They strut across fields like undertakers at a harvest festival, mourning the death of summer while feasting on its remains.
Outside your window, one bold crow tips his head and calls louder than the rest, his throat vibrating with mischief. He is the conductor of this chaotic orchestra, the maestro of irritation. And yet, if you listen long enough, there is rhythm in it—a kind of crooked music, raw and restless, the sound of change arriving.
Because autumn is not quiet. Autumn is wind tearing through branches, leaves tumbling like coins, and crows staging their black parade across the sky. They are annoying, yes, but they are also the season’s heralds, reminding you that nothing stands still.
And when their chorus finally lifts—when they all rise at once in a storm of wings—you are left with silence so thick, it feels like a blessing. The kind of silence that lets you hear your own breath, your own heart, your own small place in the turning of the year.
