For many years, Franklin Long took morning walks along the river. When he was young, his walks were runs, even in the winter when it snowed. As he got older, the runs slowed to walks. Finally, in his twilight years, he started using a long stick to support himself and he rarely walks alone anymore.
“What’s that over there, Grandpa?” Franklin’s youngest grandson, twelve-year-old Foster pointed away from the river bank, just a few hundred feet ahead of them.
“We must wait, Foster. This is a solemn ceremony.”
“But Grandpa, they’re birds.”
“No, Foster. They are crows.”
They both watched with interest, though Foster’s hands and feet were starting to get cold.
“There must be a hundred of them in that circle. Aren’t groups of crows called a ‘murder’?”
“Yes, Foster. Europeans in the 15th century coined that term, but it’s inaccurate and disrespectful.”
“But they’re just birds, aren’t they Grandpa?”
“No, Foster. They are crows.”
“Why are crows so different from birds?” The boy was rubbing his gloved hands together and wiggling his toes inside his boots to keep them warm. He looked and the old man didn’t seem to notice as their breath rose in white mist from their mouths.
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Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.
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Thanks for sharing James’ story 🙂
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You’re welcome.
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Reblogged this on Die Erste Eslarner Zeitung – Aus und über Eslarn, sowie die bayerisch-tschechische Region!.
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thanks, Michael.
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Crows are indeed different from the average bird, at least in regards to their remarkable intelligence.
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They are, although I wonder whether our rather narrow human definition of intelligence sometimes blinds us to other forms it might take.
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I was thinking that exact thing as I was writing my previous comment 😉 Our narrow definition of intelligence almost certainly blinds us to what other forms it might take – in both animals and other humans.
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My dog wrote a post on that subject a couple of days ago. (No, I’m not all that weird…but the small dog does get all the fan mail 😉 )
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