“They arrive as a river in the sky.”

My friend Bill wrote that the other day on his website to describe atmospheric rivers and how rain happens in Seattle.

I liked that line so much, he said I could take it. You can keep reading if you want, but  seriously, it’s not getting any better than “a river in the sky.”

Visualize any river you want in your sky, but mine is a river of crows.

Yes, we’ve moved on from rain in Seattle to crows in Virginia.

(And, if you keep reading – and, look, I’m not saying you should, I’m only saying you could – eventually we’re going to get to baseball. But, mostly, we’re talking crows today. But, baseball, if you’re patient. And, if you were patient enough to sit through a nearly seven-hour World Series game last month, you can certainly wade through this river of words that won’t even take you seven minutes. Oh, and you’ll get some Bob Dylan, too, because of course you will.)

Back to the crows.

In the fall, crows arrive like a river in the sky over our little farm and then rain themselves down into our yard. Their mission: pecans.

Over the years several people have insisted there are no pecan trees in our part of Virginia.

Tell that to her.

Maybe that’s what the crows say, too, just to keep the squirrels away. “No pecans here.” Crows are tricksters that way.

Oh look, they missed one.

So, the crows arrive like a river in the sky – 20, 30, 40 of them – and pour themselves into our yard. It’s a torrent of extremely noisy feathers and a fair amount of pushing and shoving.

(I’ve probably done all I can with Bill’s “river in the sky” thing.)

The crows show up, clean you out, and then disappear as soon as you go out to take a photo.

Dammit.

There’s an old saying “as the crow flies” to suggest that crows follow a direct path. Maybe they do. Not my style.

Because all those crows got me thinking. Baseball celebrates birds – Blue Jays, Cardinals, Orioles – why not crows?

Football’s Baltimore Ravens come close, but only because Edgar Allan Poe – who has ties to the city – didn’t write a poem about a whip-poor-will.

Nocturnal whip-poor-wills are scrappy, odd little birds. They look like they think they know more than you. (Maybe they do.) If they were human they would be the guys tossed out of a back-alley bar at 2AM. And, it would probably be best if someone took their car keys because they’re in no shape to drive.

Bill Monroe, the “Father of Bluegrass,” understood the potential of whip-poor-wills.

I know that soon I’ll have to travel
I know I’m over the hill
I feel so all alone my darling said she’d be gone
When I heard that first whippoorwill

 

Here’s Poe: “But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door – Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door – Perched, and sat, and nothing more.”

Raven.

Whip-poor-will.

See? We’re already off track. We’re here to talk about crows and now you’ve got me trying to convince you that Edgar Allan Poe could have done something truly special if he’d only stopped to consider the whip-poor-will.

Poe.

Did you know that in 1826 Edgar Allan Poe briefly attended the University of Virginia, but left after 11 months due to $2,000 in gambling debts? That’s more than $65,000 in today’s dollars, maybe more. Let’s just say, if you had the chance to play cards with Edgar Allan Poe in 1826, you should have done it.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention UVa’s Raven Society, known as “the oldest and most prestigious honorary society at the University of Virginia.” I mention this only because in honoring Poe as, basically, their patron spirit, they write: “Although not known for spending long hours at his lessons, Poe was already remarkable for his brooding, lonely genius.” Which I suppose Poe could have put on his résumé.

Edgar Allan Poe. Didn’t study. Gambled (poorly). Brooding, lonely genius. Kinda makes you wonder why no one ever named an honorary society after you, doesn’t it?

The Whip-poor-will Society. Just think about it, that’s all I ask.

Dammit, this is the thing about crows. They’ll distract you so you get off track while they eat your pecans.

This brings me ever so briefly to Chicago Cubs all-star outfielder Pete Crow-Armstrong. But fans and even broadcasters just call him “PCA,” so he hardly counts.

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There are other Crow-like ballplayers out there over baseball’s history. A few random Crows, and a few more Crowes, Crowleys, and Crowells, and one Crowson.

Crow-like.

Ravens are crow-like which would bring us right back to Edgar Allan Poe and we’re not doing that.

Crows are smart. (And, scarecrows are scams. No crow is going to be taken in by a doll tied to a stick.)

Please.

Crows can figure out puzzles, make and use tools, and work in teams. They can remember faces and hold grudges, which is a handy attribute when playing the Dodgers.

(Dear Blue Jays Fans, I’m sorry.)

A bunch of crows has long been known as a murder of crows. It’s a weird, creepy Old English thing.

You know what they call a bunch of powerful bats in a baseball line-up, don’t you?

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Murderers’ Row

Which shouldn’t bring me back to Edgar Allan Poe, and, yet, here we are. You’d think Poe might have written “The Raven” at a pub in Baltimore, what with the Baltimore Ravens and being the birthplace of Babe Ruth and all. Or maybe somewhere near the University of Virginia, what with the $2,000 in gambling debts and all. But no.

He wrote it in New York’s Greenwich Village. Which is great, because it lets me mention someone else who wrote in Greenwich Village.

“Black Crow Blues” Bob Dylan (1964).

“Black Crow Blues” marks the first song Dylan recorded playing the piano.

So, hey. There’s no baseball team called The Crows, but there oughta be.