There’s a man in my neighbourhood who is trying to befriend the crows. At least, I assume that is what he is doing.

His living room looks out on to the river, away from the road, and is popular with joggers and dog walkers because they are free to run there without being troubled by traffic.

I guess it’s why the crows like to hang out there too. The strip of grass, the trees, the water, the relative peace. They can strut their stuff uninterrupted. And they do.

I don’t think I have ever walked along this route without their raucous caws to keep me company, and I always enjoy listening to them bicker with each other, and watching them swoop about the place, commanding the space and claiming it as their own. I’ve taken to saying good morning to them in the hope that they will come to recognise me and understand I mean them no harm.

Though I admit there is a touch of self-preservation to my attempts at inter-species communication. Years ago, while out running, I was swooped on by a very persistent crow who, for some reason, seemed to have taken a dislike to me. I can only assume I reminded him of some other runner who had caused him trouble in the past, and that I was paying the price for someone else’s bad behaviour. Crows have long memories, and a keenly developed ability to hold a grudge.

So now I try to let them know who I am with aural clues as well as visual ones. Hopefully, to them, I’ll become ‘the good morning lady’ and not some irritant to be banished by swooping wings and keratin beaks. So far, so good.

And I suppose the man in the window is also trying to be known to them, in his own way. Each morning, when I walk there, his window is either open, or he is stood looking out and waiting. Sometimes, if he is late, it is the crows who hop around outside, calling to him to let him know they are waiting for him. They are demanding and impatient and I think it is only a matter of time before they start to peck at his windowpane.

They gather because they have learned that around ten o’clock, the window will open, and the man will appear with their peanut treats. The nuts always in the shell, so that they need to prise them open, a little challenge they appear to enjoy. If I am late, I see the remnants of their breakfast feast – the emptied shells – scattered around the grass where they have discarded them.

I am sure there are people who won’t appreciate this little breakfast ritual. Who will complain that feeding the birds brings with it a vermin risk. A part of me always wonders though, if this is an excuse, if what really troubles them is the interaction itself. Communication between city dwellers and these noisy, clever, birds is to be discouraged because to make space for them, to give them a reason to appear each morning and make their mess, make their noise, is to admit that they are allowed to encroach on ‘our’ space. Is to accept the mess and the noise. Is to understand that we have to find a way to share the space we have and to be generous with it.

Who knows?

But I can’t help feeling anything other that joy, knowing that this friendship is developing between a man and his fellow avian city dwellers. I like that this interaction is apparently needed, that the urge to make contact with animals is too strong to resist. That we need to take such small moments to interact with nature, whenever, wherever, and however we can find it.

I like too, that this man persists with his overtures to the crows, despite official regulations which entered into force earlier in the year, banning the feeding of birds in Amsterdam. Where once you would always see people on the quayside feeding the coots, ducks and gulls their old bread and table scraps, now there is no-one. And I miss it. Especially the gulls that used to perch on the bridge railings beside the local café each day at 16:00 and wait for the chef to come out with their daily scraps. There was something delightful about the way they lined up, like little white naval officers all along the bridge, in anticipation of their dinner.

But now, no more…

It makes the little morning scene with the crows something precious and rebellious. A small act of defiance in one corner of the city. A man and some birds, quietly doing their thing. Acknowledging that there is something in such interactions with wild animals which nurtures and satisfies us and provides us with a brief moment of happiness, as the city is transformed into something more than just us.