The contemplative crow walks the field, head focused on the ground, black black bird against the green green grass.

All the other crows this year have clustered in social groups. They seem to have an affinity for perching high in the pines, looking down, squawking and cawing to each other, and at any movement below. Their softest conversations are at the volume of a fan at a baseball park witnessing a bad call.

This crow, for the second day this week, is on its own, silent. Most at such a close distance to a human would be keeping a cautious eye out, if they stuck around at all. This bird is on task, meditative; it pays no attention to me.

Just one foot after the other, searching, searching.