I asked readers of my newsletter to write to me and tell me what they see out their windows.

1. A murder of crows

Portland, Oregon

Dear Cary,

A group of crows is called a murder. A murder of crows.

Portland has multiple murders of crows. The Audobon Society says more than 15,000 crows roost in downtown Portland in the fall and winter. I’m not sure about the spring, but my amateur observation is that there many here all year long. Did you know crow poop is corrosive? I just learned this from the Audobon Society’s website. Also that the city — or somebody; it was unclear — has contracted in the past few years with falconers to have their hawks haze the crows into moving away from the streets and instead to the waterfront park along the Willamette River. Win-win: the crows have their space, and the crow poop stays off the sidewalks, benches, awnings, and bus stops. Probably a win for the falconers, too.

During the day, some murders of crows fly to my part of town. I live in a tree-filled neighborhood between the Willamette River and Mt Tabor, one of America’s only extinct volcanoes within a city’s limits. Crows seem to find this a convenient neighborhood for their day job, whatever that is. At the first signs of dusk, they rise up from trees and roofs and phone poles and balconies and gardens, and fly back to their waterfront home.

In the past week or so, some crows have been staying behind. They walk back and forth on the roofs longer into the evening. They fly up, circle around and re-settle on the phone poles and balconies. They look at us, the humans, who are behaving so differently. Until recently, the crows crossed paths with the humans who went downtown during the day and came east toward Mt Tabor in the evening. There used to be more humans on the sidewalks. Now the few on the sidewalks turn away from each other and walk out into the street.

Late evening yesterday, a crow perched on the ledge above my balcony, silhouetted against the sky, and stared at me. “Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you already be home?” I asked it.  The crow turned its head to stare at me with its other eye. Then it rose up, circled the building one time, and flew west to join the rest of its murder. Or so I believe; I can’t know for sure.

That’s my report from Portland, Oregon.—Margaret

2. Quiet like a venture capitalist’s tomb

Palo Alto, california

Dear Cary,

It’s quiet. like a venture capitalist’s tomb, like a new Costco rug, like an H1 visa expiring. I look up from my back patio when a plane flies overhead, my thoughts for once interrupted instead of guided by the constant roar of the jets, now maybe two or three a DAY, instead of per minute. I look around and a hummingbird is hovering right in front of my face, trying to figure out who is the interloper in his personal space. Perhaps pitching a new app, or software-as-a-service. Hummingbird would be a good name for a startup, I think. I sit out here a lot now. There is time. I’ve wanted this time. But I am alone.

A Zoomed Ecstatic Dance party, blurting energy through limbs through the corners of the little box I dance in on the screen. Flailed my scarf in the air to the music. Fun can be had. I begin to slow down. Except. When the 2am story-tellers reign sovereign. I’m not a fan of the dream world or my dream companions with their tales of disaster. I am alone.

I was certain one or two of the three grown kids will be home, boyfriend in tow, to weather the crisis from their childhood bedroom, meals served with comforts of mom. But – I’ve done my job. They are independent San Francisco workers, explaining what “WFH” means and too tired to visit. I bring the dog for lunchtime walks, six feet from the children I raised holding their heads up when they could not.

On Tuesday morning the yoga class greets from the ether with tinny nasal voices talking about Trader Joe’s senior hours, the line is around the corner and they won’t let you bring your own bags in. No TP still (I’m not sure why and who is using all the TP, why is this even an issue? We are the same number of people as always, eating and drinking the same amount of food and water, right?) No live basil plants anywhere. Hardships abound. But we do our modified yoga poses and I realize that while I can’t do yoga by myself – I get too distracted – this is definitely not the same as going out to class. I want my community. Laying our mats down with a slap, shuffling to get props and blankets, saying hello and excuse me. I hit “Leave Meeting,” and I am alone.

I look in the fridge, see nothing of interest but still eat a mid-morning chocolate covered fig. I decide to hike the Stanford Dish preserve with a friend a few doors down. Instead of driving together we meet there – I drive solo everywhere now. Radio on. Radio off, generally traded for this week’s Sam Harris podcast with scientific explanations, or Krista Tippet’s spiritual cast if I’m in THAT mood again. This gated open space is still open. But not for long – with everyone home from work it’s like the freeway in rush hour. Moving up the hill feels as difficult as ever, and the talking pauses. We frown at each other as a runner passes WAY too close, in between our 6 feet of separation. It feels dangerous – I’m actually outraged. After an hour, I’m back in the car. Alone.

TV shows surprise me. The cavalier close-talking and hugs and…sex with strangers. It is uncomfortable – tense – you can almost see the germs flying from the unmasked faces.

News from China seems far away and foreign. Then from Italy – this can’t be happening “here.” Locked down? Dying people crowding hospital hallways? A thunking in my chest is breath caught unaware and unmoving, the sense of …dread? traveling up my chest to my throat. It feels like that earthquake dream. Except it might be real. Might be here. How can I do this alone?—Cindy

3. Indoors (with violin)

Amsterdam

Dear Cary,

Very nice to get your invitation to write to you.  The photo is gorgeous.  Is that what you get to look at normally or have you climbed up on the roof to make the rest of us feel even worse?   ha ha   No  just kidding.

I don’t have a view but I live in a stunning part of Amsterdam in the south where many little stores remain open that (surely in America) would be deemed non-essential. Most are privately owned and operated.  It’s one of the joys of living here. I moved here in 1078. I mean 1978. I’m going on 75 now.

I played violin with the Netherlands chamber orchestra for 27 years, as well as in other orchestras in other countries like Canada and Mexico.

I always loved your column and was upset when it stopped.  I bought 3 of your books.  One for my sister you very kindly inscribed as she was then suffering from colon cancer.  (since recovered).   I know you had a bout as well, also recovered thank goodness.  It is brave of you guys to move at your little bit  later stage of life.  Most people wouldn’t I don’t think.  I was only 33 at the time  I left so it was easy.

Bush made me feel ill.  But the person holding the office now, I believe truly that he suffers from narcissistic personality disorder and therefore the people to hold accountable are all the toadies around him.   It has been a sport to make fun of him on the talk  shows, and I understand people need to laugh but at the same time, it isn’t productive to change and seems very beside the point.  It seems a lazy way to not deal with what is happening.

How I am coping on a personal level, because you asked, is pretty ok because my neighbourhood is rather like a sleepy early Sunday morning. As a person who has lived mostly for my music  and art (I started painting “seriously”  in 1983), I am used to being alone and get most of my creative energy from the inside. Painting was originally a release from the super-regimentation of orchestral playing.   (There is not much creativity in it except in finding ways to deal with bad conducting from bad conductors).

But of course the joy of  sometimes being in the middle of a transcendent  musical experience  made up for it.

I’m glad you’ve started your column again and enjoyed the letters and response I’ve read so far.  Your writing always feels so sane to me. Fresh. Alive.

I have to go walk my dog now.  He is a toy poodle.

All the best  “down”   there in Italy from the lowlands of Holland,  (Italy is my favourite country btw)—Denise