This was a nostalgic saunter along the Verdugo ridge, poking in and out of a perfectly moody foggy day. Then, just as patches of blue sky appeared in mid afternoon, I was approached, with ‘many a flirt and flutter’, by a raven couple. They circled above and around me on the trail to the fenced-off government compound on Mt Thorn, my last peak for the day, croaking loudly to one another, soaring and plunging to rest briefly on a wooden electric pole and ultimately finishing their dance on a communication tower. Things got quiet. The refrain of a song drifted into my mind as I watched the two dark perched birds slowly narrow the gap between them, “les amoureux qui se bécottent sur les bancs publics, bancs publics…” (lovers who cuddle on public benches, George Brassens). The slightly smaller of the two leaned its head to peck the other on the neck. It emitted a soft appreciative “I like that”, in raven speak of course, and shook from beak to claw from pleasure. I’m no ornithologist but I’ll be damned if this wasn’t exactly what Brassens had in mind, two lovers cuddling on a public antenna, looking cuter than ebony buttons. I walked away quietly, smiled broadly, and finished the refrain in my head, 

"les amoureux qui s'bécottent sur les bancs publics 
bancs publics
en s'foutant pas mal du r'gard oblique
des passants honnêtes.
Les amoureux qui s'bécottent sur les bancs publics 
bancs publics, bancs publics
en s'disant des je t'aime pathétiques
ont des petites gueules bien sympathiques." 

lovers who smooch on public benches, public benches, public benches, without a care for the dirty looks of proper passers-by. lovers who smooch on public benches, public benches, public benches, whispering pathetic 'I-love-u's', look so friendly and nice (great example of "lost in translation").

"Les Amoureux des Bancs Publics", George Brassens.