Every morning and evening in Lewiston, Maine, a spectacular phenomenon unfolds—a "river of crows" flowing across the sky. Join me as I share my observations of this daily corvid migration and my ongoing attempts to befriend these intelligent birds with unshelled raw peanuts.
Living in Lewiston, Maine has granted me a front-row seat to one of nature's most captivating daily spectacles: what I've come to call the "river of crows." Every morning and evening, like clockwork, hundreds—sometimes thousands—of crows stream across the sky in a seemingly endless black ribbon. It's a phenomenon that never fails to capture my attention, no matter how many times I witness it.
The sight is both mesmerizing and humbling. In the early morning, just as the sun begins to break the horizon, the crows emerge from their roosting sites and flow overhead in loose, undulating formations. They don't fly in tight V-formations like geese; instead, they create this fluid, organic stream that seems to pulse with collective intelligence. The sound is equally impressive—a cacophony of caws and calls that echo through the neighborhood, announcing their passage to anyone within earshot.
Come evening, the process reverses. As dusk settles over Lewiston, the crows return, heading back to their communal roosts. The evening migration often feels more dramatic, with the setting sun casting their silhouettes against golden and purple skies. Some days, the stream is narrow and focused; other days, it spreads wide across the horizon. But it's always there, as reliable as the tides.
I've found myself more aware of these corvid commutes throughout my day. I catch glimpses of the river flowing by from different spots—sometimes from the porch, sometimes through windows, other times from wherever I happen to be when they pass. There's something deeply satisfying about witnessing this natural cycle, this reminder that we share our urban spaces with creatures who have their own routines and communities.
The idea of befriending crows didn't start in Maine—it began years ago in Arizona, where I first saw videos of people forming relationships with corvids. Birds leaving gifts for regular feeders, recognizing individual humans, even seeming to communicate. I was fascinated, but living in the Phoenix metro area, I never really saw corvids on a regular basis. Later, when I lived a couple hours north of the valley for a few years, I'd spot some around but never got around to trying to attract them.
Then I came to Maine. The sheer volume and proximity of crows here was striking. Watching them go through trash in the winter, seeing the daily river of hundreds flowing overhead—it gave me hope that I might finally make this dream come true. If there was ever a place to befriend crows, this was it. So I decided to give it a try.
My strategy was simple: unshelled raw peanuts. From everything I'd researched, crows love peanuts, and the unshelled variety gives them something to work at, which they seem to appreciate. Rather than using one consistent spot, I've taken a more interactive approach—when I see crows around, I'll toss peanuts from my second-floor balcony to the street below. I usually do this while making eye contact with one or more crows that seem to be paying attention, hoping they'll make the connection between me and the food appearing.
The results? Mixed, to be honest. The crows definitely notice the peanuts—I've watched them swoop down to investigate, and the offerings always disappear. But befriending them has proven more challenging than I anticipated. Crows are incredibly cautious creatures, and they seem to have an almost supernatural ability to sense when they're being watched. Even with the direct delivery method, they often wait until I retreat from the balcony before approaching. I've become something of a corvid-obsessed spy, peeking from windows to see if they take the gifts.
Here's a YouTube short I just uploaded of one such event: https://youtube.com/shorts/dKug_dFVZmw?feature=share
There have been moments of progress. I've noticed certain individual crows (you can tell them apart by subtle differences in size and behavior) seem more comfortable than others. Often one or another particularly bold crow might show up, though we're still far from what I'd call a "friendship". It's more of a wary business transaction: I provide peanuts, they tolerate my distant presence while taking them.
One of the most interesting things I've observed is how the crows' interest in my offerings varies with the seasons. During spring and summer, when natural food sources are abundant, the peanuts sometimes sit untouched for hours. The crows seem content with whatever they're finding elsewhere—insects, berries, small prey, and the countless other food sources available during warmer months.
But come late fall, as the leaves drop and winter approaches, everything changes. Suddenly, the peanuts disappear within minutes of being put out. The competition seems fiercer, with multiple crows often arriving simultaneously, cawing and posturing at each other over the prize. Winter in Maine is harsh, and I imagine the easy calories from peanuts become increasingly valuable as natural food sources dwindle.
This seasonal shift has taught me something about the intelligence and adaptability of these birds. They clearly remember the location of reliable food sources and return to them when conditions warrant. They're not just blindly following instinct; they're making calculated decisions about where to invest their time and energy based on the availability of resources. It's a reminder that these aren't simple creatures—they're problem-solvers with excellent memories and the ability to plan ahead.
The more I observe and interact with the crows, the more impressed I become with their cognitive abilities. They seem to communicate with each other in ways that are complex, not just with different calls meaning different things, full body gestures and movements are very commonly exhibited even if I don't yet fully understand them. I've watched them work together to mob potential predators, coordinate their movements during migration, and even engage in what looks like play behavior.
These birds remember faces, too. I've read about studies showing that crows can recognize individual humans and even pass that information to other crows. I like to think that somewhere in the collective crow consciousness of Lewiston and beyond, I'm known as "that peanut person". Whether that reputation is positive or merely tolerated remains unclear.
What strikes me most about the daily river of crows is the sense of community it represents. These birds aren't solitary creatures; they're deeply social, roosting together, traveling together, and apparently communicating constantly. The morning and evening migrations aren't just about getting from point A to point B—they're social events, opportunities to maintain the bonds of a complex avian society.
Watching them has made me think about human communities and our own patterns of movement and congregation. We have our morning commutes and evening returns, our social gatherings and communal spaces. We're perhaps not so different from the crows, following our own rivers of routine and ritual through the landscape.
My efforts to befriend the crows continue, with small signs of progress. I'm patient—I know these relationships take time, sometimes months or even years. But every morning when I hear that familiar cacophony overhead, and every evening when I see the river flowing home against the darkening sky, I feel connected to something larger than myself.
I may one day look into implementing and/or designing something like CrowBox.
My biggest dream goal with this crow-befriending project? To one day have a crow bring me a random blue object as a gift. I know it sounds ambitious—almost fantastical—but there are documented cases of crows leaving gifts for people who regularly feed them. Usually it's shiny things: bottle caps, bits of foil, buttons. But I've decided to aim for something specific: something blue.
To work toward this goal, I've started leaving random blue items on my patio alongside the peanuts. Blue bottle caps, small blue toys, blue ribbons—anything that might catch a crow's eye and help them associate the color blue with the food and positive interactions. I'm essentially trying to teach them that blue = valuable, hoping they'll eventually return the favor by bringing me their own blue treasures.
I've even gone so far as to generate AI images of crows holding blue objects, which I occasionally leave out with the peanuts. Is it silly? Maybe. Will it work? Who knows. But there's something delightfully hopeful about the attempt. I'm trying to communicate across species, to establish a symbolic language through color and exchange. Even if it never works, the experiment itself feels meaningful—a creative attempt to bridge the gap between human and corvid intelligence.
If one day I wake up to find a blue plastic spoon or a scrap of blue paper left on my patio by a grateful crow, I'll consider it one of life's greatest achievements.
The daily crow observations have become more than just a hobby—they're a meditation, a grounding practice that connects me to the natural rhythms still present even in our urban environment. They remind me that we share this world with other intelligent, social creatures who have their own lives, routines, and communities.
Whether or not I ever achieve true friendship with my local corvids, the attempt has enriched my life in ways I didn't expect. I pay more attention to the natural world around me. I'm more aware of seasonal changes and their effects on wildlife. I've gained a deep respect for these often-overlooked birds who are, in their own way, just as complex and community-oriented as we are.
The river of crows flows on, and I'll continue to watch, learn, and occasionally leave out peanuts. Who knows? Maybe one day, one of those crows will finally trust me enough to take a peanut from my hand. Until then, I'm content to be a quiet observer and occasional benefactor to the magnificent aerial community that graces Lewiston's skies every morning and evening.
There is a small chance that I might venture much deeper into this as a research project into language and behavior using video documentation and machine learning to classify behavior and create models that can offer two way communication 😎.
Have you observed crow behavior in your area? Do you have any tips for befriending these intelligent birds? I'd love to hear about your experiences with local corvids.