one giant raven step

I began to write this two days ago as the El Moro Runt (the late Runt below), the fourth and only one left in the nest, contemplated flight. Sadly, this morning, I found him dead in the sand. Did he fall flying or was he prey to a greater power and/or hunger? His three siblings sat quietly on the cliff, looking seaward.

Further south, the Inklings have at last come off the nest at times, indicating successful incubation, I believe. Edgar Allen prowls the cliffs for food as well as for protection of his mate, Lenore, and his progeny.

The Grogs appear so carefree, flying out and about together and without any apparent demands for food, that I am almost convinced that they are nest-free now. Their abandoned nest drops its walls with the wind, twig by twig, and to the cacophony of saws and tree trimming. The liberated Grogs give no indication of having established a new post.

Raven Redux

The triumphant Moros scour the bush for bread to feed three big babies feathered in black. I thought I saw a diminished fourth in the back of the nest but am uncertain. Often the parents fly straight past the white crusty beaks begging for supper. They are intent about their business.

The frazzled Inklings (see damp Edgar Allen Inkling to left) have retaken an old nesting spot on the cliff where they were at home in years past. Their rival Jets are so consumed with life in the palm tree, that they appear to have taken little notice and no threatening actions.

The Grogs are acting enigmatically. Sunshine no longer sits in the eucalyptus tree nest and there is no evident life about it. Grog is not guarding there. Have they moved because of the troublesome building distractions? Arthur Conan Grog is giving nothing away yet (Mr.Cool in photo on top).

Before the rains

The poor Inklings have been washed out again. This was their home before the rains. What will they do now? Which way to turn? It's forever starting over, again and again and again...





Meanwhile, further north, three Moro babes showed their beaks. The Moro family is a raven's pace ahead. El and Ella Moro scrounge the coast for tasty tidbits for their hungry young.

A.C.Grog coasts along the sands in a more leisurely fashion as his mate, Sunshine, is stuck incubating the nest. Occasionally, he flies in with a morsel to keep her content. Otherwise, this is deep breath time before new demanding beaks begin to call.

Raven Families Update 2011

Faithful Grog is guarding his nest and feeding his Sunshine who sits impatiently. She was happily gallivanting through the air and around the beach only last week. Now she is stuck in that old necessity of creation. The Grog couple are at home in the eucalyptus tree still left standing after their previous tree home was chopped without notice in 2009. There is busy building around and beneath them but A.C.Grog keeps his beak up, more concerned about potential trouble from the air.

Hidden Grog Home (photo)

The Moros are also at nest. Ella Moro rarely ventures off from her edgy cliff-face home, cleverly camouflaged in shadow. Her views of the Pacific are second to none but perhaps she can be blase, having lived there many a year. She keeps her head mostly down, focusing her warmth and trusting in the aerial ingenuity of her mate, the El Moro, to take care of 'out there'.

El Moro flying on his back (photo)

The Inklings appear to have taken over Pip

territory, having built a nest in the runoff pipe

only to have it washed away in last week's rain. Today, I saw it was rebuilt in the same place. Let's hope the predicted storm does not wreck their work.

The Jets remain in their palm tree, although they venture further into the beach area, seeming to claim a narrow stretch between Moro territory and old Inkling ground as their own. In rather aggressive fashion, they are staking the air further and further south, pushing the Inklings closer to the border and cousin chihuahua ravens. The Pips appear nowhere in sight.

The family furthest north, north of Grog territory, I failed to mention before. I call them the Smuts. Gus and Elise are magnificent raven specimens. They have lived for years in a palm tree with the flat top of the grand arches leading up Coast drive as their front porch.

Returned to Earth: 2011

Two years later and we're back together. The ravens stayed. The ravens remember. I have landed once again in their territory.

Territory is their preoccupation as nesting is soon to begin. The Grogs and Moros are in fine fettle as are the other pairs.

Although I stay a bit further away, I hope to catch still the raven's ear.

The Last Post

Nesting Sun

Pelican conductors: "Sing!"

Scout, Grog #6

1 of 3 Inkling fledglings

Grog & Sunshine*

5 of the 6 Grog Gang

The young Inklings are out. As they study from the cliff the bush and bees, skywaves of pelicans spot them and jot them down--three new notes to their make-shift, wing-bearing song. The raven fledglings watch the pelicans drift, dipping to the Pacific, adding wave-crash and gull-screech as chorus to the graceful order of their line which reminds these corvid half-notes that they, too, can fly and up they go, following their parents, Edgar Allan Inkling and Lenore.

The Grog Six have not only survived but are a force of nature. They own the cove by working together. They can de-snack a seagull, one or two distracting it, pulling a tail while another jumps in for the dropped morsel or use their numbers to intimidate the young Moro even though he is larger. They are quick, sharp and endearing.

The Grog Six are also competitive with each other, a good survival tactic. They remain in some proximity to their parents who appear to be in the last phase of kid control--still providing food, following the trail of inept caching and gobbling up the precious wasted bits, flying in quickly to break up fights, raising the alarm to danger and frequent scolding before simply looking on, shocked feathers raised but silent.

The three Moros, on the other hand, form a perfect triangle. Only the exuberance of their flight occasionally shifts their form, loyal and devoted. The Pips and Jets hunt the hills as much as the beach and join in the greater society of ravens living landward.

Now that nests are abandoned, there is nothing to contain these ravens. Lifting with the breeze or of their own volition, against cloud, surf or vast sea, these black stars fold the blue sky under their wings. Grog tucks his Sunshine*. Night is come. "Prepare to climb unto the stars."

Photos through generosity of Diana @ravendiairies.com. Thank you!

The Last Nestlings

"Out with the new and in with the old"-E.A. Inkling

*The Last Nest

"I know everything now."

"Not listening anymore, old Grog."

Now that I am away for a week, I expect the three little Inklings will fledge before I return. I imagine they will venture forth, first climbing out of their nest to explore the bushy cliff above them before any serious flights. The three are fairly well feathered out but with big white-lined beaks still.

Before I left, I watched the big greedy nestling in front testing his wings. Soon they will not be mere vans to beat the air. The third nestling seems always stuck behind or beneath the other two. They are growing so rapidly now that the parents have to feed them from the edge or outside the nest.*

The young Grogs act like they've been out and about for years, flying with supreme confidence, engulfing a parent's beak with their own before a gesture of food can be made, demanding yet endearing too. One little Grog kept creeping closer to me as I sat on a log, curious I think of what I might be made of, yet just resisting an urge to peck me to see. Like his parents, we too seem to respect the line between us.

There is a calm in the Grog family with some of the parent's irritation in abeyance. Perhaps it is a lull before the inevitable separation, a time of mutual enjoyment. The parents appear proud if not sometimes dumbfounded by the power and precociousness of their young while the young happily revert to their childhood privilege of parental preening. With Grog working on one wing and Sunshine the other, a young Grog's soft cooing and fluffed feathers exude pure bliss.

Everyday, I expect to see less than six Grog offspring yet so far, the six remain in home territory. No one seems to know what becomes of young ravens. Like most birds, their survival rate is speculated to be low.  As I think of the three new Inklings coming out in all their youthful trust and curiosity, I am remanded to the newly old, the raven parents, those songbirds--'singing-masters of my soul'.