When he called, he made a sound that was a cross between a cat's meow and the lowing of a cow. He took a breath and thrust his head forward, slamming the vocalization deep into his gullet so that it began with a croaking, like the start of an ancient machine.

It came in threes, this noise, obviously picked up from his time around humans. Was it the mimic of an animal or the bleat of some piece of landscaping equipment? Wherever he's gotten in, in whatever secret corner of shiny things he'd discovered it, he was obviously fond of both the sound itself and the attention he'd get from making it.

And so it was, that I was sung to by a crow.

I arrived at Lake Crescent very late, speeding across the darkened Olympic highway while shuffling Rush songs. My finger throbbed from where I'd sliced it open on the cat food tin, a deep gash that had poured blood for half an hour and almost ended my trip before it began. The parking lot was empty; a complete silence, a starless night hung over the cabins. In the yellow haze, the humped shapes of a raccoon family could be seen making their way towards the water's edge. I tossed my belongings on the extra bed and settled in for the sleep born from an exhausting week.

Now I sit in the windowed lodge room, on wicker chairs. The same crow that sang to me this morning, who followed me around for half an hour, never more than 15 feet from me at all times, has arrived again and is surveying the lunching guests in the hopes that some small tidbit will be left behind. To my left, across the wide expanse of shimmering water, two anglers wade knee-deep and cast hope into the depths. A handful of boaters row lazily into the grey-white mist. A woman in red with long boots kisses her lover, not knowing that I am watching them.

Everyone is drawn to the pier, unable to resist walking to the very end. The compulsion is irresistible and I watch people try to pass by without giving in. But one by one, the instinctive pull, or the human desire for exploration, or the indescribable need to be joined with water, tugs them along the weathered planks towards those last few inches of wood.

The sun comes out to burn off the fog and it nears the midpoint of the afternoon. I've been awake for five hours and have no idea where the time went. This is a blissful realization, because I've done nothing but be. I've watched a sparrow mob leapfrog across the shoreline, pausing to gobble insects before lighting as one to land a few feet further on. I've watched the ducks quack-launch themselves off the driftwood and heard the sound of flickers and the symphony of birdsong to which I'm still unfamiliar after seven years.

And now the child takes off her bright orange life vest and the crowd noise from the last group of lunchers rises behind the plate glass. All day, alone in this room, I've had old woman and their daughters stroll in and remark on me. "Oh, he has his laptop". "He's all set up reading". "See that man, honey?" Seems that I too am this odd and fondly observed creature.

I'm already feeling more connected, like I can hear again. There's so much to be changed and reclaimed in my life. But for these two days, I'm happy to be a singing crow, alone with his shiny things and looking for tidbits.