An ABC Of Exotica: Recording Corvids Badly (2006 2013).

C is for Crow (2013)

The jeep stops below the treeline and we climb down. The early
evenings rain drips from pine branches and heat leaves the engine
in pings, pinks and tings. The soles of our six shoes crunch the
smallest fragments of rock and send larger chips skittering. The
swinging bunch of keys still seems to ring. The headlights glare
leaves our eyes and the dark starts to fade; tongue tastes of sour
wine. Along the slope my ears find owls faintly calling; I cannot bring
them into the headphones I have pulled on. Something has
disturbed a crow from its night roost.
J is for Jay (2009)
The morning air here is still. It is as if a heavy lid has been placed
over this small part of the Earth, holding everything down. The
plane trees that line the road and usually sway in rustling conspiracy
are silent now. Even the jay that has just launched itself off the tall
oak seems to struggle in flight, the birds body raised high as its
wings beat low. The exhaust of a cigarette rises from a nearby
bench, the sour smokes sheer volume as unnatural as the way it
clings to the ground before gently dispersing into the brightness.
J is (also for) Jungle Crow (2006)
Everything reflects: the fountain ripples the overhanging trees
(some leaves bronze), it swells and shrinks the roof tiles and
undulates the sparse white clouds in the bright sky. The windows of
the gardeners hut show me to myself and show the green
mountains behind my neck. From my knees I rise up inside the bell;
my shaven head pushes the bells tongue softly back against its
body and tilts it sideways on the two chains. More of a clack than a
ring but something was struck and something still lingers. The crow
slides over the microphone and gifts me NR_CROW.aiff.
M is for Magpie (2009)
Magpies hop between the pylons, their chattering, clattering calls
like so many dice being thrown. One for sorrow, two for joy, three
for a girl . One fans into a landing and treads towards me on pinthin legs, its close feathers every colour a camera cant see. It
swivels its head, I spit over my left shoulder. A company of crows roll
their pelvises up and down a high bank, casting sideways glances,
cawing. I never see their beaks move. A coot drifts in circles down
the canal, its movements are marked by little acoustic explosions:
tings, phuts and pitts.

P is for Pion Jay (2012)

The pool has gathered to it the only green for miles and drips reflect
back off the living rock. I leave the microphones and recorder and
climb out of the hollow. A flash of blue is given and taken away and
then another. As bright as butterflies, pion jays slide between dry
branches. I stoop to spit at a bullet case. We lean back with
sunglasses on picnic chairs in the shade of the jeep. Sudden wild
horses raise dust then turn away. The hot desert air is so thin that
everything might just gently lift and leave the ground.