It all started with a New Year’s resolution to walk every day. Yep, that’s a low bar, but it had to be something I couldn’t talk myself out of on a busy day. I’m a trial lawyer and practice with my husband, Chris, and we have two very active kids. I had been trying to find some kind of self-care outlet and a little fresh air in the morning was the most doable option.
At first, it was just me and the songbirds, no AirPods or distractions. But as the sun began rising earlier, so did the neighborhood crows. Crows are not the early birds, but they are the loudest. Once they’re up, everyone’s up.
Although I was annoyed at having to share my time slot with the crows, I kept walking. And I started noticing one crow that was different. She always seemed to be in the same spot along my walk, quiet and observant—never joining in the clamor overhead. One morning, she hopped right into the middle of the sidewalk in front of me. I stopped and said, “Well, okay. Good morning to you.” And then—yes, I know it sounds nuts—this crow made a distinct, deep bow and looked back up at me.
It seemed like the only thing to do was bow back. She appeared satisfied with my response and hopped back into the grass.
Naturally, I went home and Googled, “What does it mean if a crow bows to you?” Apparently, it’s a thing. And from that point forward, it became our thing. The name Mildred popped in my head and stuck—it captured her calm demeanor and formal appearance.
Mildred usually joins me about halfway through my walk, once the sun’s been up for a little while. She hops beside me on the sidewalk, or flies from mailbox to mailbox, pausing just long enough to make sure I’m keeping up—unless it’s trash day.
Trash day is a special occasion for all crows. That’s when they are at their loudest and most rambunctious—everyone is yelling to their friends where the scores are (“Guys! We got Doritos over here!”). On those days, I may get a Mildred flyby on her way to a promising bin. If it’s a good haul, the crows might take the next day off entirely. Over the past year of paying more attention to crows generally, the only time I’ve heard more racket than trash day has been when a new group shows up and there’s a turf war.
Do the neighbors think I’m nuts? Probably, but I try to keep a low profile (or did—that jig is up). If someone approaches while she’s hopping beside me, I usually shoo her up into a tree rather than try to explain. “Um, yes, this crow is with me, but don’t worry—she’s a polite one. We don’t like those noisy crows, do we, Mildred?”
I have wondered if Mildred’s silence is the reason she seeks out human connection. Maybe there’s some limitation there that makes it hard for her to fit in with the other crows.
But even though she’s quiet, Mildred has plenty of other ways to communicate. She loves to play, and I know she’s in a good mood when she breaks out the aerial stunts. Her favorite is "The swoop." She’ll leap from a high branch, dive down low until her feathers skim the ground, and then loop back up for another pass—always glancing back to be sure I’m watching. When she’s impatient, she will scrape her beak back and forth against a branch or fencepost, as if to say, “Come on!” She knows I love it when she fluffs her feathers up into a giant poof, so if I make a “brrr” noise she’ll do it on cue (unless she’s not feeling it, in which case I get the beak scrape).
My kids, for the most part, are unimpressed. They want a dog. They are entirely unsatisfied with a crow. For some reason, they can’t appreciate how low-maintenance a crow is.
A year and a half in, and I still start my day with a walk, and Mildred still accompanies me most days. As for why Mildred picked me? I think it’s because I was the only one weird enough to bow back. I’m sure she’s tried it before with people who didn’t notice.
Over the past year, she’s made me realize just how much is unfolding in nature if we take the time to notice—even in the suburbs. Even on trash day.
Stephanie is an attorney with Alexander Shunnarah Trial Attorneys. She and her husband, Chris Balzli, live in Liberty Park with kids, Mary Lou (9) and Chris (7)