Something to Crow About During Quarantine

--Susan, Every Other Sunday

Let's talk about crows.

Japan has two native species of crows, with the most common being the large-billed crow (Corvus macrorhynchos japonensis). They can easily reach 60 cm (23 inches) long -- and, as a result, are often mistaken for ravens.

A corvid emperor surveying his domain.

They're also fairly aggressive--so much so that some places even have warning signs posted in Japanese and English warning people to "beware of crows." (A note: the warning is primarily designed to ensure people don't get mugged--an experience you won't quickly forget, and one I've shared in a previous MIE post.)

A mug(ger) shot from my past.

In Japan, the crow is revered as a harbinger and messenger of Amaterasu Omikami, the chief deity in the Shintō pantheon. Her primary messenger, the divine three-legged crow called Yatagarasu, is reported to have led Jimmu, the first emperor of Japan, to the place where he assumed the Chrysanthemum Throne.

Jimmu and Yatagarasu - the crow as messenger of the divine.

The crows of Japan certainly seem to remember their place in the divine order; they are brash, self-confident, and loud enough to be heard several blocks away when arguing with their brethren--and believe me, they argue constantly.

My apartment sits approximately a block from a park with a bamboo grove and a block and a half from a Shintō shrine. We have resident murders (of crows) in both locations, and I hear them at almost any and every hour of the day and night. (Fortunately, I like their calls.)

Attempted murder, anyone?

During this time of coronavirus isolation, I've resumed a practice I began about a year ago--attempting to win the trust of one of the larger local crows. He likes to sit on the TV antenna and roof of the house next door, and I'd noticed him watching both Oobie and me through the window.

On a whim, I placed a cookie on the balcony ledge. After I closed the door, he swooped in to take it. He's a clever fellow, and it only took him about two days to realize I'd resumed the cookie offerings. We've been at it for almost a month now, and he knows that the cookie goes out between 9 and 10 am. He hasn't quite decided whether he's stealing it or not (a critical first step in winning his trust) but he's happy to come and take it either way.

Hachi coming in for his treat.

For my part, I'm happy to have a visitor who understands the idea of social distancing.

The crow (who I've named "Hachi"--which means "eight," and is a Japanese play on "Yatagarasu"--the "eight span crow") has brightened someone else's days as well: my cat, Oobie, loves to watch Hachi get his cookie, and waits for him by the window every morning.

The cookie grab.

It gives all of us (including Hachi) something to look forward to - and although I hope the social distancing measures will be lifted sooner rather than later (hey, a girl can dream) my "visits" with Hachi are making the days a little brighter in the meantime.

So tell me . . . what are you doing to amuse yourself during quarantine?

Following the Eight-Span Crow

--Susan, every other Sunday

Western legends often portray the crow as a harbinger of disaster, lurking about like Poe’s raven to observe the misfortunes of man.

In Japan, the crow is more often seen as evidence of positive divine intervention in human affairs. The Shinto pantheon even includes a crow god, Yatagarasu (“the eight-span crow”), who symbolizes guidance. A crow’s appearance portends rebirth, new growth, and supernatural guidance. According to the Kojiki (Japan’s oldest historical record), the eight-span crow led Jimmu, a human descendant of the sun goddess Amaterasu, to the site where he assumed the throne and became the first Emperor of Japan.

During my research trip to Japan last summer, I hoped to see a Japanese crow (Corvus macrorhynchos), also known as the Jungle Crow or Large-Billed crow. These intelligent birds are larger (and louder) than the crows we see in the United States, and since they feature in a couple of my upcoming novels (one of my Shinobi Mysteries and another project I'm writing on the side) I hoped to see one and get some notes about its behavior and appearance.

Little did I know that Yatagarasu had something even more special planned for me…

On my second day in Kyoto, I visited Fushimi Inari Taisha, one of Japan’s most important Shinto shrines. 

Torii gates. Many, many torii gates.

The shrine consists of buildings at the base of Mount Inari and a path that winds up the side of the mountain to another shrine at the very top. Numerous sub-shrines dot the mountain, and the walk itself is lined with thousands of torii gates, which represent the movement from worldly places to a sacred space:

Moving from the worldly to the sacred.

The climb takes several hours, so many people don’t do the entire thing, but I wanted the full experience, so up I went…alone.

A little way up the mountain, a path branches off from the main one. Visitors who opt to follow the “road less taken” are rewarded by a sub-shrine with statues memorializing the dragon guardians of Japan:

Dragons: they show up when you least expect them.

Another, even less traveled path, leads out and away from this sub-shrine, through a primeval bamboo grove. I knew I had a long hike ahead, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to follow the bamboo path for a little while.

The road less traveled...Japanese style

Ten minutes later, deep in the heart of an undisturbed primeval forest, I heard a flutter of wings and found myself face to face with a giant black crow. 

Japanese god or curious corvid? I'm not taking chances.

It landed not three feet away, on the side of the path, and looked at me with absolutely no fear. We stared at each other for several minutes—me, memorizing his every detail, and him doubtless expecting something more edible from the encounter. Sadly, I lacked the desired--or required--offering.

The crow flew away when it heard another couple approaching along the path, and I continued up the mountain. I reached the top:

The highest point of Fushimi Inari Taisha

and returned to the base, without another spotting of the crow.

Several days later, I visited Kasuga Taisha, another major Shinto shrine, and a primary setting in one of my upcoming novels. As I approached the entrance, a giant crow swooped down and landed on the entry post. 

Apparently, he heard I was coming.

Like the crow at Fushimi Inari (over a hundred miles away) he watched me approach and waited for me to come and stand beside him.

No fear, but disappointment when I had no food.

Japanese crows, like their brethren around the world, are confident birds with little fear of people. It’s common to see them at Shinto shrines and they often watch the visitors with interest.

Even so, I couldn’t help but feel that the crows at Fushimi Inari and Kasuga—and several other crows that appeared at critical moments throughout my trip—were a positive sign that my travels (and my writing) are taking me in the right direction.

I’m not superstitious by nature, but these eerily timely encounters with Japanese crows made me understand why Japanese people consider the crow both wise in itself and also a sign of heaven’s favor. I look forward to seeing them again, on my next visit to Japan.