The Crow's Sneeze

Last week I went on a walk and I saw a crow sneeze. That image has been lodged in my mind ever since, and shows no sign of leaving.

How could I have possibly gone so long without realising that crows can sneeze? It makes so much sense. Perfect, scientific sense. The kind of sense I have to apply daily in my numerous biology lessons. There is pollution and dust in the air, the crows of course breathe that in and they of course must sneeze it out. Nonetheless, I was astounded. Cartoon-like, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it and, cartoon-like, the crow stared me down as if it were daring me to challenge what I had just witnessed, daring me to apprehend it for it's wholly rational action. After a few moments, locked in this ridiculous showdown, it flew away as if it hadn't just changed my life more than any crow had changed any human life before this day. I can say that with more certainty than anything I have ever said before, which, in the interest of full disclosure, is not much. I am a deeply uncertain person. So much so that I had to look up 'crow sneezing' to verify what I had just seen. There were videos, which confirm that I am not the first, and will not be the last, to feel utter bewilderment at this action and that someone else had felt it similarly life altering enough to upload to YouTube.

So far, I probably sound a little off my hinges, but I will try to explain. This cheery little crow changed my life because it took off my blinders. She made me question if I had really been so self centred that I truly believed humans to be the only ones evolutionarily advanced enough to do something as straightforward and logical as to sneeze. Because, in it's purest essence, that is what my surprise was, a type of offence taken that this animal could produce something I believed to be so human. The humble sneeze, to me, a despairing hay fever survivor, was nothing more than an inconvenience that ensures my summers will never be as perfect as the ones I had when I was 7, before I became hay fever ridden and before I became so falsely sure of my omniscience that I couldn't comprehend a crow's sneeze. This was something that, in all my wisdom, I had failed to consider. But that crow took my irrational human sneezes and made them crow-like and perfunctory and abnormally normal. That crow grasped my patchy understanding of the world and breathed it in, only to sneeze it out with some more of the holes filled and some spots ironed out.

When I set out on that walk, before witnessing this life altering event, I had resolved to take a little more notice of my surroundings. I find it so filled with wonder that the little crow rewarded me so impulsively with that little sneeze. It was her song of congratulations for my decision to venture, albeit minimally, outside of my winding, frustrating humanness into her logical and linear world of nature. So, because that crow encouraged me so kindly, I have since taken more notice of my surroundings. I have stopped to stroke every cat that I see and enjoyed the different textures of their fur. I have noticed the stubborn wildflowers in tiny vacant patches of front lawn, carrying with them the knowledge that their ancestors were here long before the lawn owner's. To renew my interest, the same force that sent that crow to me also sent out a paraglider for me to look up to. That really solidified my resolve that noticing is one of the kindest acts you can do for yourself. So thank you, Ms. Crow, and I'm sorry that I forgot to say bless you.