Entry 6

Crows are partially migratory birds, meaning that some move south for the winter, and others do not. Crows that live in more northern climes, such as those in Canada, tend to migrate to warmer climes, while those that live in areas that do not experience very extreme winters tend to remain where they are. Those that stay put gather in large communal roosts by the tens of thousands, dispersing to feed during the day and returning at dusk. American crows have begun to increasingly roost in urban areas. It’s not entirely known why, but researchers hypothesize that the light (crows see about as well as humans) helps them to better spot predators.

The mix of local and migratory birds crowds the skyways between November and March. Crows gather among the bare trees, making them look as though they have retained their leaves through the winter. A single tree can hold up to 3,000 crows, each weighing a pound. Roosts near rivers tend to be warmer, as well, with water temperature generally being higher than air temperature. Pittsburgh, with its three rivers and many wooded areas within city limits, is a popular site for roosting crows.

The crows have begun to disperse from the cemetery. Some will make their way to their breeding grounds in New York or the Great Lakes. Some have simply begun to expand their range in the city, shaking the cold from their wings.

Other birds now take their place. The avian cacophony of spring has begun to rear its head as the search for mates begins. Sparrows, omnipresent but largely hidden, leave their tiny footprints behind in the soil newly moistened by snowmelt. Robins (supposed harbingers of spring, but sighted regularly in the city over the winter) rustle among the underbrush, oddly fond of the ground despite their winged bodies. Cardinals flit warily within bushes, skittish at any human approach. Pairs of crimson males and tawny females retreat to more remote brush as I pass by. The bluejay, large and proud with its sapphire crest, releases its astonishingly loud calls, which I often mistake for a hawk’s.

I spot a few red-winged blackbirds, as well. I’ve long considered these birds to be personal good luck charms, tending to appear at moments in my life when I most need a little sign of favor from the cosmos.

Along with my visit to the cemetery this week, I also took a trip to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in an attempt to learn more about birds. It was an odd kind of mirror-world: I visited a place for the dead to observe the living, and visited a place of the living to observe the dead. A bit dim and paneled in dark wood, the Hall of Birds is exactly that, a long hallway, lined on either side with glass display cases of taxidermied bird specimens. Most of these birds are not native to western Pennsylvania, and offer a rare close glimpse at species like the toucan, kiwi, or bald eagle. You can also stare into the glass eyes of more elusive species of raptors and hard-to-spot finches. Absent from the hall, however, are those more common species we see or hear on a daily basis: pigeon, sparrow, crow, robin. It would seem that these species are far too quotidian to merit a place among the stuffed and wire-bound specimens on display. Small children may marvel over the size of an ostrich’s egg, but won’t gaze with an equal amount of wonder at the surprisingly irridescent feathers of columbines, or the sleek nocturnal grace of corvids.

Enough has been written about the mystical properties of birds, and none of it needs to be rehashed here. Creatures of the sky, messengers between worlds. Angels’ wings. The holy dove.

Today, the spring equinox, marks the point in the year when we at last begin to have more sunlight than darkness every day. A halfway point, the fulcrum at which day and night stand equal. It’s an odd kind of day, I’ve always felt, when we’re supposed to celebrate the return of the sun’s reign while most trees remain defoliated and flowers have barely begun to bud. The air stands especially still today. Only the flight of the birds make you realize that there is substance to the stuff, a medium that holds them aloft.

Crows and their cousins in the genus Corvidae are known to mourn. They have been observed gathered around the bodies of their dead in a ring of solemn silence. Some have gone so far to say that crows hold funerals.

I feel, ultimately, that I’ve learned nothing of these birds from either my walk through the cemetery or my trip to the museum. So ubiquitous, and yet so alien. I can only guess at their lives, their thoughts, their sins.

One of those moments passes, strange and bone-chilling, in which all the birds stop singing at once. Silence lasting for a few seconds that seem like hours.

Then the symphony resumes.

Entry 5

March 5th, and it's the first day that truly feels like winter's thaw. This isn't a fluke, one of those freak 36-hour illusions of spring that have been so common this year, that have been causing plants across the northern hemisphere to bud, leaf, and bloom weeks too early. But today, the air hovers comfortably between brisk and lukewarm, the breeze blows gently without the sting of frost. The trees that aren't evergreens still remain bare, but no longer stark--softening, it feels, against the cloudless "blue true dream of sky." Diaphanous, a perfect semicircle of moon hangs midway between the zenith and horizon, enlarged so that I can just barely cover it with my thumb held an arm's length away. It's as if the cemetery is just at the end of a long exhale, almost ready to draw its bright green breath again.

Large banner-like signs have been posted around the grounds that "CLEANUP BEGINS MARCH 1. ALL MEMORIALS AND ORNAMENTS WILL BE REMOVED." All along my peripatetic loop around the cemetery's three hundred acres, small mounds of browning wreaths, adorned with crimson ribbons and holiday ornaments, have piled up beside the roads. Trinkets, too, buried among them--little angels, teddy bears, desiccated flowers the colors of old bruises, and silk flowers gaudy in their insistent tropical hues.

For once, there's not even a hint of snow on the ground today, and these Christmas wreaths seem even more alien among the growing verdure. More than this, I notice even more graves than I ever have before--flagstones centuries old, their engravings effaced by time, and coming close to being overtaken by the grass. Some of them I can't even see until they're nearly underfoot, worn down as they are and almost level with the roots and the worms.

I take a detour up a sloping gravel path I've never seen before. It winds for a short length through a densely wooded section of the cemetery, a thick-piled carpet of dead leaves over the ground. Low, artfully rough-hewn headstones line the path, many bearing the dates of 2015 or 2016. Recent deaths, still fresh, I imagine, in the minds of those who have been left behind. What startles me more, though, are the stones bearing names and only birth years--commissioned and placed while those who will come to rest beneath them are still very much alive. To be able to see your own headstone is one thing; to see the site of your burial, even; but to be able to visit your own grave, complete with headstone and covered by deadfall as though it had been dug and the earth had settled many years before--the thought confounds me. And yet--to be able to visit when the maples blossom in April; when their leaves, larger than hands, fan out in July; when they flame against the sun low on the horizon in October; when the branches are coated in shining white rime in January; to be able to witness with living eyes the perennial beauty of this place must be a comfort.

I exit the thicket and walk a ways on level ground among the taller and grander tombs, many of which I recognize, by now, from previous visits. On the other side of the path, the slope falls away toward a muddy section of road yet to be paved, stagnant water caught in tire tracks. Fragments--scraps?--of half-carved stone are strewn down there, as well as the sawed-off remnants of thick trees either downed by storms or removed to make way for more graves. Among the untamed brush below, flashes of blue and red dart through the air--birds, charging musically at each other in pairs in what I assume--or probably simply project--is a display of courtship.

I pause to listen and take note of the multiplicity of birdsong around me. In the past few months I've heard only the caws and honks of crows and geese. But now there are warbles and squeaks, pips and stutters, hoots and trills. And then, just as I begin to continue walking back toward the center of the cemetery, I am frozen dead in my tracks: a herd--almost a stampede--of white-tailed deer hurry in a flash across the path not twelve feet in front of me. Two dozen or more charging down a slope to my right and continuing down into a valley to my left, crossing what must be fifty feet or more in a matter of seconds. I stand stock still, dumbfounded in the proverbial headlights.

Until the thrum of a woodpecker shakes me aware again and I keep walking. Out the gates and back onto the street. Back among the herd.