Caw: (n) harsh cry of a crow or similar bird.

Everybody seems to prefer when I’m sweet. They relish my gentle tone. They will tear up when discussing my merciful nature. If they were describing me in aviary terms, I would be the nightingale, the dove or the robin offering the promise of spring.

That goes on for a while. And then the need arises to be the crow–the blackbird that offers a darker view, with a bit of cackling, complaining
and crankiness.

No one likes this old bird. They even speculate that perhaps I’m not feeling well or I’m vexed by a bad mood.

It never occurs to them that my crow shows up when things are not right–so that my robin can return in good conscience.

People’s ears are tuned to the tweeting of the love bird instead of the caw of the flying scout, who scours the field ahead to offer a warning.

I suppose I enjoy being the songbird much more than being the “cackler.”

But every once in a while, the crow has to show up and remind us that the scarecrows we’ve set out to frighten away danger aren’t nearly as terrifying as we hoped.