Two Crows

# Summary

The text reflects on the human tendency to project assumptions and narratives onto the observed behavior of crows, highlighting our inclination to interpret and fill in gaps based on our own experiences and biases.

# Abstract

The author recounts an incident involving two crows, where one appears to lecture the other, and delves into the various anthropomorphic scenarios that a human observer might imagine to explain their interaction. The narrative touches on themes of communication barriers, the ambiguity of observation, and the pitfalls of jumping to conclusions without understanding the full context. It also emphasizes the importance of being content with what one observes without adding or subtracting details due to personal biases, suggesting that many misunderstandings arise from our habit of embellishing observed facts with our own assumptions.

# Opinions

- The author suggests that human observers often impose their own interpretations and stories onto animal behavior due to an "unshakeable predilection to paint by numbers."
- There is a belief that our assumptions are frequently based on past experiences and a desire for certainty, which can lead us to overlook the complexity or truth of a situation.
- The text conveys that our interpretations may be far from the actual reality of the subjects we observe, as evidenced by the example of the crows.
- The author considers it a "very human habit" to fill in gaps in our understanding with assumptions, which can result in misunderstandings.
- Acknowledging the rarity and value of individuals who are truly observant and can tolerate the "unadorned" and "uninterpreted," the author implies that this quality is exceptional and to be admired.
- The author posits that many disagreements stem from our tendency to embellish observations with false assumptions, suggesting that honesty in observation can prevent conflicts.

And Their Human Assumptions

Two birds on a wire She’s giving him an earful He blinks a lot

True story. I saw them. Mr. Crow a little larger than Mrs. Crow. Mrs. Crow turned toward Mr. Yap, yap, yapping away. And then some more of the same.

Mr. Crow stares straight ahead and he does blink a lot. A lot.

Of course, what I saw could have been a totally different scenario. It could have been Crow Senior and Crow Junior (I don’t know how to tell the sex of crows, especially from a distance). Junior asking, for the two hundredth time for permission to fly into and over the nearby, and to Junior inviting forest. Senior, who has stated, many more times than once, that if Junior ever asks again, he, Senior, will not respond. The answer is already given and is a standing answer and it is NO. Blinking to prove how much he is now ignoring Junior.

But why, why, why? Junior Yap, yap, yaps on while Senior studiously ignores. He has told Junior why already. Many times. The nearby forest is not safe for a young crow, who is still too small to defend himself, too is still too slow to outfly pursuers. Who is still too young to know better.

Junior will have none of this and so goes on and on and on hoping against hope that Senior’s reply might change. Well, it will change in a year or two, of course, but Junior is thinking in terms of minutes not years.

Of course, that might not at all have been what occurred on that wire. It could well have been the young Miss Crow pleading with her mother, Mrs. Crow, to let her marry Suitor Crow. Again, the answer is a standing NO. Suitor Crow comes from the equivalent of a Gypsy Crow Clan, sworn to never intermarry with Miss and Mrs. Crow’s clan. It is so completely out of the question that Mrs. Crow refuses to even listen, though she can’t help but blink a lot, in disbelief or frustration who knows. Meanwhile, Miss is going on and on and on at a windy rate.

Of course, that might not at all have been what occurred on that wire.

And that is the strange (or not so strange once you think about it) thing about what you see. So often you add your own scenario and interpretation. So often you make out but a small portion of what you observe before you leap, headlong and unhesitatingly straight into what you assume is going on. Based on? Well, based on previous (correct or incorrect) assumptions most likely. Sometimes even based on evidence, as it were. You ask them what is going on. They answer. You conclude: Ah, now I see. But that was then, now is now, and Mr. Crow might not be a Mr. at all. Mrs. Crow might not be a Mrs. Might not even be a crow, might be a raven, though I doubt that, based on size. And you don’t speak Crow, so cannot ask.

We have an almost unshakeable predilection to paint by numbers as it were, to fill in the missing colors in anything we observe, or the missing notes in anything we hear. It’s as if we’re allergic to the incomplete, to the fully explained, to the remaining question(s) ruining what should be certain.

It’s a very human habit. I’m as guilty as the next guy.

On the other hand, the rare, the truly observant, the truly honest, seems to tolerate the unadorned, the uninterpreted, and stays quite content with what he or she actually saw, heard, et cetera. Nothing added, nothing subtracted (which is often the case if we don’t like what we see: let’s see only half, or a quarter, or as happens sometimes, nothing at all).

I believe that many arguments or disagreements or confusions flower from the stems of the falsely adorned.

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Two Crows

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