One night Crow had a dream—there was something broken in the earth. Mountains sprang up through the forest, their jagged peaks piercing the tree canopy and pulling meadows and rivers apart. Water flowed uphill and sideways, trying to right itself as the landscape kept changing. Crow heard a great groaning noise as the earth splintered into cracks and fissures, sending all the birds into the air and all the land animals scurrying. In the dream, Crow’s comfortable nest, safely tucked into the upper arms of an oak tree, was swept up by this sudden change. The ancient oak lost its grip on the earth and toppled down the mountainside. Crow saw all her beautifully woven twigs and pine needles coming apart in the rushing wind. 

Crow woke with a start. The echo of that dreadful groaning still rang in her ears. With a twitch of her wings and a quick look around, she found she was still safe in her nest; the world around her unchanged. Except it wasn’t. When her eyes settled she saw something new—a new thing that had not been there before—a thing that didn’t make sense. 

It looked like a rock. A white rock with blue translucent planes, embroidered with rich green lichen. And there it was, just sitting across from her in her nest. It reminded her of the dream and she shuddered, imagining it as a broken-off piece of the raging mountain, landed in her nest as a warning, a message. She pecked at it but it did not budge. Up close the rock was strangely beautiful, like a miniature landscape, but Crow would have preferred to admire it from a distance, or at least where it belonged-—on the ground. Big rocks do not belong in comfortable nests. They are cold and pointy and heavy. How did it get here? What did it mean? 

All rainy morning Crow huddled in her nest considering this stone, puffed up against it in a distinctly unfriendly way. She thought and thought, but remained mystified that a rock this heavy could fall from the sky into a nest as high as hers. She felt prickly and nervous, but no matter how big she puffed out her feathers the rock did not move and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Despite the dreary weather, she decided to fly out and pay some visits to see what she could learn.

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The rain had stopped when Crow left her nest to go looking for the swifts. They were talkative birds and always had an opinion about what was happening, what had happened, and what might happen. She found them whirling high in the sky, dancing between evaporating clouds and patches of sunlight.

Crow perched awkwardly on the highest branch of the tallest tree, hoping to catch their attention. But soon her attention got lost watching their dance. They swooped, banked, circled, darted, plummeted, and soared. They were many and they were one.

And then they spotted her: “Crow!” called one swift.  “Crow, crow, crow!” The others picked up the call. Most of the small birds whirled higher but a few swooped lower to investigate. 

 “Swift friends!” cawed Crow, “I bring important news!” Her loud voice startled even the curious swifts who had flown down close, but they quickly settled in nearby trees. “Tell us! Tell us” they chirped in a chorus. Crow bobbed up and down as she spoke, “Last night I had a disturbing dream—the mountain grew up through the forest floor, uprooting our homes. The noise was terrible. And then, when I woke up, there was a giant rock in my nest!” She flapped her wings for emphasis and a few swifts rose nervously and then landed again. “This rock was far too big for any of us to carry and drop. Have you had any strange dreams? Have you heard any news that could help me understand this mystery?”

All at once, the swifts began chattering:

“Silly Crow, the mountain is far from here.” 

“What’s a dream?”

“Rocks can’t fly!” 

“Rocks are just eggs that don’t know how to hatch!” 

“I only know one bird that can carry heavy rocks. And she lives near the mountain—”  

“Shhhh!”  

“Owl!” 

“Oh no, Owl!” 

“Owl! Oh no! Owl! OWL! OH NO!” 

 All the other swifts picked up the cry and began to fly away, but the one perched nearest to Crow stopped them: “False alarm!” And again the other swifts picked up the call, “False alarm, false alarm! We’re ok, false alarm!” 

In a quieter voice, the first swift continued, “Maybe you’ve angered the owl that lives on the high cliffs of the mountain?”

“Oh no, oh no…” chattered the nearby swifts, nervously circling and landing. 

“No good comes from the mountain.”

“Fly away!” 

“Stay in the forest!”

Crow was alarmed to learn that an owl might be involved. There was an ancient grievance between her people and the owls. How dare they drop giant rocks into her safe, warm nest!

The more Crow thought about owls, the angrier she got. You can never trust an owl, she muttered to herself. For one thing, they creep so silently. One could be right behind you and you’d never know it! And they hunt at night when all good birds should be asleep. And they speak in a language no crow can understand, so they can’t be very smart. And they don’t have any friends at all! No one to introduce them, no one to explain proper forest etiquette….

Crow was determined. “Thank you, friend swifts!” she called, “I know what I must do.” And she flew off to find her family and come up with a plan to protect themselves from these menacing, rock-dropping owls. 

“Oh no, oh no!” some swifts kept calling, But others could be heard among them: 

“But what is a dream?”

“Watch out for the mountain! Stay in the forest!

“Keep your eggs unhatched!”

 “Keep pushing the wheel!” 

 “Push the wheel!” 

 “We’ve got to keep pushing the wheel!”

And with that the swifts rose up all together, higher and higher, circling against the sky. Crow turned to watch them and saw a perfectly round rainbow at the center of their dance. But when she moved her head, it disappeared. Oh, how she wished everything that troubled her would vanish so easily. 

All day and on into evening, the crow family gathered. Parents and children, cousins and grandparents. Large crows, small crows, loud crows, and louder crows. Some had heard the details of Crow’s dream and were alarmed, others had heard some rumor of it and were more alarmed. Some were angry. Some were confused. All of them had something to say, and when saying it didn’t make them feel better they tried saying it again, a little louder. 

As day became dusk, they lit lanterns against the growing dark, along the creek, to help them see. They were unaccustomed to being out of their nests at night. Only big bad things would warrant it. They also hoped the lanterns would warn off nocturnal animals whose eyes, they imagined, would hurt from so much light. And so, in the warm glow of the lanterns, their conference continued loud and long. Small animals trying to sleep heard the crows’ barking and throaty conversations and ran off to find quieter beds for the night. Keen-eared animals far across the hill could hear every word that was said:  

“This is our forest and we have to defend it! We have to keep our hatchlings safe!” said one, over and over. 

“I’ve heard owls are so quiet and cunning they can snatch food right out of your mouth!” said one, with a thrill of excitement. 

“I’ve heard they have mysterious powers!” said another ominously. 

“I’ve heard they’re too dumb to talk properly, they just hoot gibberish.” said one who considered herself one of the smarter crows in the family. 

“But how can they be cunning and dumb at the same time?” asked a young crow who was always asking uncomfortable questions like this. 

There was an offended, feather-preening silence. Eventually one said, “Must be one of their mysterious powers.”

Crow moved through the crowd, nodding and cawing, with a sense of importance. Amongst all these brilliant minds, she was sure someone would know what to do. But the night wore on and even as dawn approached, the crows still could not agree. Many had gone up to their nests “to keep thinking” and hadn’t come back for hours. Some were dozing off mid-sentence. It was in this bleary-eyed blue hour that one famously bad-tempered crow, a distant cousin, sidled up to her. “There’s really only one thing to do.” he croaked. “We’ve got to find those owls and teach them a lesson. We’ve got to go to war!” 

Crow felt her feathers prickle, as though the dawn had suddenly become quite cold. While most of the crows had fallen asleep, she felt herself begin to wake up. She had been afraid of disruption, and war sounded like terrible disruption. It sounded like something out of a bad dream. She recalled her dream about the mountain growing up through the forest and toppling all the trees. With all this talk of owls she had almost forgotten that she still didn’t know what the dream meant—she still didn’t know what that rock in her nest meant. A small voice inside her whispered: “This might have nothing to do with owls. And if your family makes war on the owls, you’ll be responsible for the harm that is done.” 

Crow was ashamed. As all the remaining crows stumbled off to get needed rest, she hoped more sensible minds would prevail in the morning. Perhaps, then, she wouldn’t have to admit that she may have gotten it all wrong. 

As the morning sun rose higher, Crow settled in her nest, across from the mysterious rock, and gave in to the heaviness of sleep. Halfway across the forest another bird also headed home. Unlike Crow’s family, this bird loved the velvety dark night time and quiet hunting. All the shouting hurt this bird’s sensitive ears, and scared away its breakfast. But like Crow, this bird also returned home with a troubled heart.

Crow awoke to the sound of cawing from branch to branch, from forest floor to treetop. But instead of the confused cacophony of the night, this time the crows were all saying the same thing: “War! War! War! Time to go to war!” She saw grim determination on the faces of her siblings, her cousins, her parents and grandparents, her great-grandparents, her cousins twice-removed. Young and old, they looked and sounded serious. 

Her heart sank. She wanted to burrow into her nest and never come out again. But there in her nest was the mysterious rock, irritating her and reminding her that hiding wasn’t really an option. She knew she had to do something. Was it too late to stop this? 

She flew down into the center of the gathering, flapped her wings, and cleared her throat dramatically. She cawed, nervous but strong, “Dear crows, my family! I might have been mistaken about the owls…” but the war chants carried on. Those who took note of her merely said, “Oh no, you did the right thing. Who else could be to blame except the owls?” No one was listening. Getting desperate, Crow tried a different tactic: “My people! I had another dream last night!” she cawed loudly. “It told me I had to go to the mountain! I must ask the mountain itself for help interpreting my first dream! This isn’t about owls at all!” Some crows cocked their heads because crows are always interested in dreams, but the second half of Crow’s story got lost in the general din. 

“Go to the mountain?” A few asked, though. “Why would you go to the mountain? Nothing good comes from the mountain.”

“Isn’t that where the owls live?”

“You can’t go to the mountain alone. Sending one crow to fight the owls is too dangerous, we need to attack all together!”

“But it could be useful to send a crow not to fight, but to spy! Let’s see how many owls we’re up against!”

Crow, desperate for any delay, agreed.  “Yes!” she cawed, “I volunteer to go alone as a spy to the mountain! To see what we’re up against!” 

The other crows agreed, with some younger crows swooping from branch to branch around Crow to cheer her bravery. 

But Crow didn’t feel brave. She was afraid of leaving her family and setting off alone. And she was afraid of encountering owls along the way. And she was afraid of the mountain itself. And she was still afraid of that rock in her nest—things were just getting worse and worse, and none of it made any sense. But at least her family had agreed to wait until she returned with news before planning an attack. Crow said her goodbyes and took to the air, flying north and out of the forest, higher and higher, until she reached the hard landscape where trees didn’t even grow.

Crow was exhausted when she reached the foot of the mountain. There was an eerie quiet here, no chirping or chattering, no leaves rustling in the wind. Crow couldn’t see any animals and hardly any plants, though some wild roses bloomed through the rubble of rocks that led up to tall cliffs and walls of stone. The mountain was so big Crow couldn’t see all of it at once, but felt its mass. Surrounded by many vast, flat faces of the mountain, she wondered how to begin a conversation. 

It seemed foolish to her now, the idea that she could just go talk to the mountain and ask some questions. She’d talked to birds and mice and flowers before, she’d talked to insects and stray wisps of cloud and had long conversations with lichen, but she’d never tried to talk to anything this big before. She considered the stones right in front of her—it was funny how they seemed to be looking straight through her but she couldn’t see inside of them. In fact, everywhere she looked, the stones seemed to be looking at her but also blocking her from seeing something. She imagined something bright and flickering deep inside the mountain. An intelligence, but one very different from her own. 

The very strangeness of her situation put her in a bad mood. She missed her trees and her family, her nest and her neighbors. She very much wanted to go home. And as she puffed herself up into a grumpy snarl of bird, she had the distinct impression she was being laughed at. She turned her head this way and that, but still saw no one. She heard the laughter again. It sounded like the trickling of water in hidden fissures and caverns. It looked like the tossing heads of the roses in the light wind. Crow puffed herself up bigger and started hopping up and down in anger. The laughter got louder. And as she turned around instinctively, she caught sight of her own shadow, hopping up and down with feathers bristling and no enemy in sight. Despite herself, she too started to laugh. 

As she relaxed, she could hear the faint voices of the roses, and she realized they were also laughing, but gently.  Their voices were part of what she had heard, but not all of it. “Shhh, friend crow,” they were crooning now. “You don’t need to be afraid.” 

Crow considered this. “But it’s so strange here.” 

The roses laughed again. This time their laughter felt affectionate, but Crow still didn’t see what was funny. Finally, one stopped laughing and spoke up, “You’re very strange here!” Crow remembered how funny her shadow had looked. She admitted they had a point. If she were a flower living on the mountain, a crow from the forest might seem strange to her. Even though, she said quietly to herself, forests and crows are far more ordinary than vast mountains and roses that liked to grow out of rocks. 

Seeing no one else to whom to deliver her speech, Crow pulled herself up to her full height and formally bowed her head to the roses. “Mighty mountain!” she cawed. “I have come to ask you an important question, to try to prevent a war! I need to know the meaning of a terrible dream. I need to know if my forest is in danger!”

There was a pregnant pause as the roses and Crow and the slight breeze all waited. A few roses turned their faces back and forth. Finally the forthright rose that had spoken first asked Crow, “Oh, are you here to talk to the mountain? You’d better come inside.” Just then a few rocks tumbled down and exposed an opening in the larger stones at the base of the mountain. The gap between the stones was just large enough for Crow to enter, but she hesitated. The darkness inside was entire.

The roses encouraged her: “You don’t need to be afraid.” For the first time she noticed their powerful roots, twining around the rocks and holding them fast. “If I go in,” she asked, “Can you promise me I’ll come back out?” 

“You’ll come back out again!” they promised. So Crow gathered her courage and began to walk towards the opening. Just as she entered the dark fissure she heard them say, “But who you’ll be when you come out again we can’t say.”

Crow walked a long time into the darkness. Under the mountain the air was thick and heavy, and Crow began to feel lost and sleepy. She had questions to ask, but they became as muffled and dark as her surroundings. Eventually she found a dry corner, free of rustling bats or dripping stalactites, and settled down to rest for a few minutes. 

She wasn’t sure how long her eyes were closed before she heard a voice, warm and heavy as the air itself: “Welcome, friend Crow.” Surprised, Crow tried to open her eyes, but the darkness was so complete she wasn’t sure if they were closed or open. She waited. “You’ve come to ask me something.” the voice continued. 

But Crow couldn’t speak. It was a new sensation for her. Memories raced through her  mind—her dream about the mountain, the conversation with the swifts, the council of crows, the calls for war against the owls…and as if the voice was following these images with her, it continued, “Yes, you are in trouble, little flying friend. You are darting from fear to fear and fear can harden into hate. But you’re not hardened… that’s good, that’s interesting. Fear is in the bedrock around you….yes… but, Crow, what is it you fear?” 

In a tiny, tiny, voice, barely louder than a whisper, Crow breathed out one syllable: “Owl.” In Crow’s mind, images of the Owl as a lurking menace, a shadowy figure at dusk, a blank face with no language. 

“I see.” The mountain said slowly, “You fear one so similar to yourself—another of your flying family. But there’s something else, too, what is it?” 

Crow was startled. She bristled at the thought of being similar to the Owl. But she admitted that to a mountain all birds must seem similar.  And finally she remembered—the rock in her nest! The mystery that started this whole mess. Here, under the weight of an entire mountain, that small rock didn’t seem as ominous. 

“Oh!” Now the mountain was surprised. “You’ve found one of my children! He’s been wandering for a long time, which isn’t usually the way of our people. But that’s what frightened you. Rocks that move…rocks in nests, high up in the trees…I think I’d like to tell you a story of a rock that wasn’t a rock. Another rock that moved. Maybe it will help you be less afraid.” 

And the mountain told Crow of a time long, long ago when the ocean was broad and high and the entire mountain was underwater. 

The world was full of wondrous creatures then, floating and swimming and scuttling across my toes. For thousands of years I watched over them as they grew eyes and fins and flashed bright colors or hid themselves in the sand. Even the most beautiful and daring ones, most of them were scared like you. 

One day I heard a beautiful sea anemone scream in surprise and wave her iridescent tentacles in the water. The rock she had attached to for the night was beginning to move. It rose up from the sand and began to scuttle forward on craggy legs with sharp pincers. She thought she was being carried off to become a meal and kept up a storm of screaming and cursing. But this strange rock turned out to be a hermit crab, and a shy and nervous one at that. 

“Please stop screaming!” he begged. “You’ll attract attention!” And the hermit crab scuttled between my toes to hide, not too far from where you are now. 

“Don’t eat me, I’m venomous!” warned the anemone. “I’ve got friends with powerful poisons, too. They’ll find you and sting your eyes out!” 

“I don’t want to eat you, I just don’t want the snailfish to find me and eat me!” wailed the hermit crab who had pulled his head and legs back into his shell and settled into the sand again. 

But the anemone was suddenly distracted—where they had scuttled to, she’d found an abundance of tasty plankton and now her mouth was full. After a moment, she urged the hermit crab, “Hey, a little to the left…there’s a really delicious looking patch over there…”

The hermit crab obediently emerged and scuttled to the left. The anemone ate contentedly for a little while. And then quick as anything a snailfish darted towards them and the hermit crab shrieked—as I was telling you, everyone was very scared all the time back then—but right before the hermit crab became a meal, the anemone stung the snailfish and it finned away howling in pain. 

That was when the hermit crab fell in love. Until then, he’d only been looking out for himself and only had himself to look out for. And for the anemone, she grew to love a life of movement and adventure. They both grew much braver together, and the hermit crab lived long enough to outgrow several shells. Each time he found a new shell, he helped the anemone move from the old one and set up a comfortable perch on the new one. 

The mountain sighed gently. “Crow, how many wonderful things are lost or undiscovered because the source of the gift is rejected as strange?”

Crow ruffled her feathers uncomfortably. She was distinctly grateful to not live in the ocean but had been moved by the love story. She liked the idea of animals helping each other face the scary world together, instead of being scared of each other. But how could she tell who was a friend and who was an enemy? 

Although she hadn’t spoken aloud, the mountain answered, “Look at things from a different angle, Crow. Try on a bigger perspective.”

The world was brighter than she remembered when Crow emerged from the mountain. Squinting at the sky, Crow’s thoughts were swirling with images of strange sea creatures she could barely imagine. She was surprised by how calm she felt. The mysterious rock, the specter of the Owl, the threat of war—all of it felt smaller now. She had a warm feeling about animals helping each other and forming friendships in unlikely circumstances. Even crows and owls?  

The mountain’s words echoed in her ears—what would help her look at things from a different angle? How could she get a bigger perspective? She could never get as big as the mountain itself, but she could fly really high. She made up her mind to soar higher than she ever had before, as high as the mountain’s very peak, and survey her familiar forest from that perspective.  

The wind in her wings was refreshingly familiar, but her heart and mind were still buzzing with so many new experiences. No one she knew had ever talked to a mountain. Could she tell her family about how restful it felt? Could she describe the odd friendliness of the laughing roses? No doubt, they would find it all very peculiar. A lonely feeling came over her, and only then did she realize she was flying high above a forest—but not her forest! She had flown in the opposite direction from home and was now all alone, soaring above the forest on the other side of the mountain! 

It looked a lot like her forest from up here, but the contours were all wrong. How small all the trees appear from way up high, she thought. Like the trees were barely trees at all, but like individual feathers on a single bird—small parts of the one big forest. What did that make her? Just a single crow…a part of one, big.. what? 

Her mind was so occupied with this question, she forgot she was flying far away from her home. As the sun began to set the contours of the trees below got even dimmer. She was all alone in the sky, and felt she was flying over a vast, green ocean. She didn’t know much about oceans, but one piece of the mountain’s story was clear: it was a place where animals helped each other. That could be true about a forest, too. The sunlight helped the trees grow, the trees helped the insects grow, the insects fed the birds, and birds like her helped everyone with their beautiful singing…no, that wasn’t quite it, though. She was certain her singing was a gift to all, but she wasn’t helping the insects she ate. But birds could help each other, right?

How did it work, exactly? Some kind of network of everyone helping everyone else? 

And with these thoughts, Crow grew tired and descended in gentle, slow circles down to spend the night in an unfamiliar forest. And she wasn’t even scared. 

In the blue hour right before dawn, Crow awoke in a forest that wasn’t her own. It sounded familiar, though. She heard the first few timid bird songs, and more voices joining into a welcoming chorus that swelled through the treetop canopy. And if she listened just right, she could hear a gentle, jazzy rhythm of woodland scuffling on the ground below her. Crows have very beautiful voices, but right before dawn is their time to observe silence. Until the sun has risen, they fly quietly or stand still in order to listen and attune to the day in particularly crowlike ways. 

It was in this private moment that Crow heard something exceptional—a crashing, rushing, dragging kind of noise—and then her tree was shaken by a large animal scratching up against it. Typical deer behavior, she muttered to herself, but when she looked down she couldn’t be sure it was a deer. It had the back legs of a deer, and the shoulders of a deer, but beyond that it seemed to be an assortment of plants, much like the forest floor itself—vines, mosses, flowers, broad leaves, ferns, and mulchy dead leaves—all gathered around an invisible center that was rubbing itself against the tree. The creature was so large and so strange that she remembered the mountain, the roses that grew on the mountain, and her heart leapt with an irrational flutter of excitement. She flew down half from curiosity and half from courtesy to make the acquaintance of this dweller—it was not her own forest, after all. 

From a lower branch she could see that there was a deer’s face under that headdress, that it was a full grown stag whose antlers supported the weight of all that plant life. Noticing her, the stag stopped scratching and courteously nodded his head. She bobbed her head in return and then asked, “Friend Stag, I’m from a distant forest beyond that mountain. I’m curious to learn more about your ways here. Can you tell me about your beautiful headdress?” This seemed to strike the right chord, as the stag stretched his neck proudly to be admired. 

But deer think and speak and do everything more slowly than birds do, so before he could answer Crow had even more questions. Crow remembered the story of the anemone and the hermit crab, and thought this could be something similar. She was intensely curious about how animals might all be helping each other. Animals and maybe plants, too? She kept her questions coming—“or perhaps this is a friend of yours that you carry always with you? Or are they poisonous plants, to threaten your enemies? Do you keep the same plants when you drop your antlers and grow new ones?” And finally, since Crow was quite romantic at heart, she excitedly asked, “Or have you sworn an oath of mutual love and protection to each other?”

The stag looked confused. He lowered his head and shook it a few times as if to clear his mind. Crow rushed in again, “Oh—or maybe I’m mistaken and you’re trying to get free from these plants! You must have just stumbled into a bush and got them caught on your fine, broad antlers. Here, I can help you pluck them off!” And Crow fluttered toward a dangling vine and was about to grasp it when the stag bellowed, “No!” Crow flew off a little ways, cawing in alarm, then landed on a higher branch. They were both silent for a moment, Crow preening her feathers and the stag tossing his head to adjust his flowers. Well, that was very rude, Crow thought to herself. But perhaps the plants were poisonous after all and the stag was trying to protect her. Then she remembered that deer need a lot of time to think before they’re ready to speak, which helped her forgive the fright he gave her. After what seemed like a very long time to Crow, the stag began to speak. 

“I liked you most at first,” he said, “when you recognized my beauty. You could have stopped there and I would have thought well of you, and your people beyond the mountain.” He snorted a little and pawed the dirt, then continued. “I don’t quite understand everything else you’ve said, but you certainly like to rush in and make up stories! Because of that, I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore about my headdress than you’ve already noticed—it is beautiful, and it is mine. Whatever else I say is bound to be taken up like some shiny trinket to weave into another story which is not my story.” 

Crow hopped from foot to foot on her branch, and bowed a little, feeling nervous and ashamed. “I apologize, Friend Stag,” she said finally and clamped her beak tightly to keep from launching into explanations or asking even more questions. The stag seemed satisfied. He nodded to her again and began to wander off between the trees, picking his way with regal grace. But before he was out of sight, Crow couldn’t resist asking one more question: “Your beautiful headdress!” she cried out, “How does it help you? What is the benefit of it?” 

Without looking around, the stag replied, “I adorn myself because I adore myself.”  

“But why?”  

The stag turned his head slowly and held Crow’s gaze. A silence fell again as the stag pondered the question, and Crow held in all her many other questions. Finally, he answered, “You seem to believe everything has a purpose and if you don’t know its reason for being you cannot let it be. I feel sorry for you, Crow, because if you can’t see beyond usefulness you’ll miss out on so much strange beauty in the world—and in yourself.” And with haughty, delicate steps, he disappeared into the trees.

Now it was Crow’s turn to fall silent and feel confused. She liked the sound of “strange beauty.” It reminded her of the mountain, and even of the rock in her nest. But what strange beauty was there in herself that she wasn’t seeing? The stag was the strange one... wasn’t he? As she asked herself these questions she felt a pressure building, somewhere deep below her quick and curious mind—as though a rising river was about to overflow an inward dam.

This painting is based on the beautiful photo, Barn Owl Wing, by Ryan Bourbour

Crow spent the rest of the day talking to every creature she met in this forest, trying to reassure herself that she wasn’t at all what the stag had called her—unable to see the strange beauty of the world, or in herself. She admired the strange beauty of a slug as it left an iridescent trail across the forest floor; she had a long conversation with a skunk about its bewitching odor; she traded jokes with some young foxes who had an odd sense of humor; and she was sure to admire everything she could about everyone she met. No strange beauty was going to make it past her! She spoke with a family of finches whose yellow feathers were brighter than any she’d ever seen. “What cheerful, bright feathers you have!” she proclaimed and they all bobbed their heads and replied, “What shiny black feathers you have!” After these courtesies they each went their separate ways, secretly believing their own feathers were the finest. 

By the time the sun was setting, she felt far more confident—defiantly proud, even. She was sure all the creatures she’d talked to today would describe her as broad-minded and friendly. Not at all someone who was missing out on something important. Not at all someone to feel sorry for. Someone to admire, even. Wasn’t she being very brave? Out on her own in an unfamiliar forest—a crow on a solo adventure—but, just as she was congratulating herself on her courage, a shadow fell between her and the sinking sun. Something had flown above her without making any sound at all. She instinctively shivered, and when she looked up saw huge, broad wings and a startling round face looking back at her. It was the Owl. 

Owl landed just close enough to Crow that they could hear each other speak.

“Hello, Crow. You are far from home.” 

Crow had never met an actual Owl, much less spoken with one. Her voice felt small and shaky as she said, “I… I am. I’ve come to… I’ve come to look for you!” Just as she said this, Crow remembered her spy mission. Although she’d never said it to herself or anyone else, she realized this whole time she’d been looking for Owl—not to spy, not to fight, but to see if they could be something other than enemies. 

“You have come looking for me?” Owl kept her wings spread wide as though she may fly off at any moment. It was a beautiful and terrifying sight.  

“Yes! My family—they want to wage war on you and I don’t want them to, so I went looking for you as a way of stalling them. They don’t understand the animal world like I do—they aren’t able to see the strange beauty that’s everywhere around them—or in themselves.” Crow was feeling a little removed from herself, more aware of hearing herself talk than she was of talking. “My family thinks the Owls are to blame for everything—that you can’t be trusted—but I know that we need each other!” 

“You do?” Owl seemed genuinely curious and folded those great wings. “Tell me what you know… how do I need you, or you need me?” 

Crow thought for a moment. She hadn’t worked that part out yet, but didn’t want to appear foolish in front of Owl—who was so beautiful. Owl’s feathers were so intricately patterned and colored, and Owl’s eyes were so deep and dark. It made sense that she would need Owl, somehow, what else could explain this fascination? Finally, she opened her beak and hoped that what tumbled out would sound wise. “Well, Crows are very loud and Owls are very quiet. Crows need a lot of family around them all the time but Owls are always alone. Crows are very curious and have large vocabularies, but Owls don’t use many words at all and live in the dark, so there’s less to be curious about—Yes, that’s it, we’re complete opposites! We need each other to be completely different from each other because that’s how we’re able to know ourselves.” She puffed herself out, feeling glad to have figured it out without even trying too hard. She hadn’t been able to meet Owl’s eyes while she was orating, but now she peeked to see if Owl looked impressed. 

Owl was perfectly still, her face unreadable in the gathering dusk. When she did speak, she only said, “Do you know yourself?” 

Crow wavered. Owl’s question brought back the painful conversation with the stag, and all the confidence from the day slipped away, just as night was starting to settle in around them. “Of course I do.” Crow said with very little certainty, and a good bit of annoyance. 

“I see… and yet—what I hear is not what I see.” 

“What do you mean?” Crow asked, as feelings of frustration grew in her. “That doesn’t even make any sense.” 

“Young Crow, you are not who you think you are. And I am not who you think I am. Who is a very powerful question indeed. Who, who, who are we?” And with that, the Owl flew silently into the dark. 

Crow stamped her feet, flew up the nearest tree. Angry and confused, she tucked her head under her wing for the night.

Crow awoke to a gray morning that matched her mood. She didn’t know what to do, or where to go, so she flew to the very top of the tallest tree, hoping for a better view of the world around her. But everything was swallowed in mist and low-lying clouds. Nothing had gone right since she left the mountain. No one understood her in this far off forest. She might as well just go home. At the thought of home, Crow felt a longing for her own nest and the familiar faces of her family. The feeling was so strong she began flying in that direction at once. With each pump of her wings through the heavy morning air, she became more and more determined to put this whole journey to rest. She would simply make up a story to tell her family, something that would help keep them from going to war… 

But with those thoughts she remembered why she left. And she knew, deep down, that no one at home would understand her either. She swooped in low, unsteady circles until she decided that, if she was going to be misunderstood everywhere, she might as well be misunderstood in her own home. Eventually she neared the mountain. As the trees grew sparse and gray stone faces appeared, she remembered the roses and their odd laughter. Maybe she would see more of them, here on the side of the mountain!

That was the first pleasant thought she’d had all day—but when she landed to rest her wings there were no roses in sight. Her mood got worse and worse. She began picking up small rocks and seed husks and collecting them on a nearby tree branch. When she had a sizable collection she settled grumpily up on the branch and began flicking them onto the ground below. She hoped this game would distract her from how upset she was feeling, but she also secretly hoped to hit some unsuspecting creature on the head and amuse herself with their surprise. 

But Crow was the one who got a surprise when she kicked a rock into the brush and heard a snake hiss with displeasure. 

“What is thisss?” said one voice. “A ssstone on my nose?”

“Oh! Sorry!” Crow squawked. 

“It’s a gift from a ssstormy bird crow I see!” This was a different snake voice, with a deeper rumble underneath the hissing. She flew down to meet the two snakes, knowing she probably owed them an apology. Besides, she had been pretty lonely all day and hadn’t talked to snakes in a long time. 

“Hi. Hello. I am sorry for the stone on your nose—” But she was cut off by one of them whose golden patterns hypnotized her slightly as the snake moved.

“No sorry necessary, ssstormy bird crow. You struck your quarry ssso I salute you.”

“My quarry? Oh, no, I wasn’t aiming for you at all, I was just—” And again she was interrupted.

“Jussst what, bird crow?” The golden snake’s voice grew more intense, “tosssing ssstones for no reassson at all? With no sense of what is ssstirring in you? Sssomething must be stirring in you.. Some anger perhapssss?”

Crow paused, and then spoke quietly, “Yeah, I guess I am angry.” She was too tired to argue with what she knew was true. She was upset. And she was throwing rocks because she was upset. And, she even thought to herself that she wanted to hit someone… 

“That’sss right” the snake said, as if she heard Crow’s thoughts. “You have reasons in you to jussstify your violence.” 

There was something about that word, violence. Crow shivered as the snake drew out the word into four whole syllables, vi-oh-linsss-uh. Wasn’t preventing violence the whole reason she left on this journey to begin with? And here she was, being violent for no other reason except that she was upset. 

“You’re right,” She admitted, “I have been violent, and I don’t like and I will never throw rocks again!”

“Rocksss have less to do with thisss than feeeeelingsss, sssstormy bird crow,” said the gold patterned snake as she slithered closer to Crow. “You sssay you don’t want vi-o-lence but can you sssay you’ll not get angry? What do rocksss matter when your anger staysss hungry? Would you truly deny yourssself a meal?”

Crow was a little confused by the notion of her anger being hungry, but she was intrigued. “You mean throwing the rocks is a way to satisfy my anger, and even if I don’t throw rocks I’ll still have this anger that wants to be satisfied?” 

“Yessss bird crow, alwaysss important to feed your feelingsss or elsssse they will make a meal out of you.” And the golden snake flicked out her tongue as though suddenly interested in having a meal. 

Crow hopped backward awkwardly, remembering that some snakes like to eat birds and their eggs, and that her people have also been known to eat snakes from time to time. “I don’t want to fight with you!” she said, retreating to a nearby branch. “I’d like to be friends!” 

“Friendsssss” rumbled the darker snake, emerging now fully into the daylight with gleaming scales. “Friendsssss hold a sssmall  ssspace for ssstrife between them. A sssssafe sssspace to hisssss.” And the two snakes began to dance, winding around each other and hissing, darting their tongues out in a kind of play fight that Crow watched from above.

Their gleaming shapes twisted and curled and the snakes began to look like rivers. Something in their dance began to flicker and move inside her, too. A pressure she’d been feeling since she first landed in this strange forest, since she first talked to the stag, finally began to burst and flow.

Unaware she had closed them, Crow opens her eyes to see she is home, in her familiar forest and there is a jug full of ripe red berries at her feet. She begins to eat them. Each berry is juicy and delicious but she can hear a strange sound in the distance—a rushing, a roaring— it is getting louder and louder. Crow keeps eating, a little faster now as the sound rises. In a moment, she understands—the river is flooding—and suddenly the rushing, rising current crashes through the trees and overwhelms the forest. Crow clasps her wings around the jug of berries as she is swept up in the torrent…

Spun in circles by the powerful river, she is relieved by a strange sensation that she can breathe underwater. Her fear washes away and she lets go of the jug. She discovers that swimming is a lot like flying, just much slower. As she swims through the twisting current, the waters around her darken and spin her faster into their depths…

Again her eyes open but she can’t make out what she is seeing. Is it the edge of the forest? Is she so far up in the sky she can see the edge of the forest where it meets the water? The image gets further and further away until she realizes it is actually lichen, patterned on a rock. The rock! It’s the rock from her nest! She is surprised to feel such glad relief to be near it again. But just as she recognizes the rock it starts to fall away from her again—No! Stay! My rock! 

“Your rock?” Crow hears a familiar voice in her mind—it’s the mountain. She is in its dark belly. “Come, let me show you…” the mountain says. Crow feels herself growing larger and stonier, she is becoming a massive solidity that stretches out farther than she can see. Far down below her she senses a worried, fluttery little creature. She can feel how frightened the creature is and surrounds it with mountainous protection, but the little creature keeps throwing little rocks in all directions.

All at once she is in a dappled forest full of green sunlight. She sees garlands of flowers and ferns trailing from her antlers. She is aware of herself as an exquisite beauty, a miracle of the forest. But a small, irritated creature is flicking rocks at her—she can’t see the rocks, she only hears a harsh cawing and with each caw she feels a tiny sharp pain. The pain isn’t just physical, it feels like an attack on her dignity—like being poked and prodded into the wrong shape…

Now she is spreading her huge wings, striped and barred with black flecks. She sees a strangely beautiful creature, with shiny black feathers and keen eyes, and she moves down to know more about it…She hears that same cawing, and feels those tiny sharp stones pricking her, and this time the pain feels like loneliness and being misunderstood. She flies away, disappointed… 

She soars on broad, silent wings and the dark air becomes liquid and her path becomes a river and the river becomes a snake and she feels a power deep inside her. She is dancing, and the earth is dancing with her…

Crow opens her eyes, again, and sees her home forest submerged in water but the torrent has slowed to a trickle. Her jug of berries is cracked open. Some of her berries have taken root and begun growing in the soil underwater. Many berries are floating on the gentle current, off toward other forests.

She smiles at the thought of hungry animals finding them.

May they be accepted as gifts. 

Late, late in the afternoon Crow finally stirred. I was a mountain, she remembered, with a small and anxious Crow inside me. She blinked, confused. She wasn’t in her familiar forest, there was no flood, and she had the odd sensation that she was the wrong size. But she was calm. Calmness spread through all her muscles and up to the tip of every feather on her wings. This was new. 

Being a crow, she was always interested in new things. She explored the sensation a little more and found layers of feeling. Underneath the calm she found a sadness for the mess she had made of things. But covering that was a warm sense of forgiveness for herself. Underneath everything else, she found a knowing that she would have to make things right somehow, and a trust that she would learn how… even if it took a very long time. The last new thing she noticed was herself noticing. This, too, was new. I got bigger, she thought to herself. I’m able to be in me and outside of me, looking in.

Slowly, slowly she came out of her reverie and readied herself to fly home. But was her home forest really her home, now? This was a surprising question and she filed it away to think more on later, now that she was a Crow who gave herself plenty of time to think about things. In fact, this new thoughtfulness was so much fun she found herself perched at the very top of the mountain surveying the forests below—her own forest on one side and the new forest she’d visited on the other. She thought about all the ways they were similar and different, and all the things she thought she knew about them that she wasn’t so sure about anymore. Where do I go now, she thought, when I’m not sure of anything anymore? The question was a little exciting. She wasn’t in any hurry to answer it. 

As the sky began to darken into a rich sunset, she watched the striking colors come and go and she watched her thoughts do the same. She started to sense that she was no longer alone, but the feeling crept up on her gradually. When she turned to check, she found Owl perched a few short hops away. 

“Hello, Owl.” she said, feeling anew that sense of warmth, calm, and a little sadness. 

“Twilight greetings, Crow.” Owl replied. 

And then they were quiet. Perhaps each of them had questions in their own minds about the other, but for a long while, neither spoke. Owl learned a lot about Crow from the silence she kept. Finally, Crow broke the silence— 

“I owe you an apology, Owl. Perhaps more than one.” 

“Mmmm…” is all the Owl said as a reply.

“I was so afraid and didn’t know it!” Crow continued, “I went on and on about things I don’t understand, and I was so wrong about so much.”

“Yes, you were,” said Owl, almost amused. “But tell me, what do you think you were wrong about?”

“I’m afraid it may take a long time to talk about all the things I’ve been wrong about,”  Crow mused. 

“We have time.” Owl assured her. “The night is young.” 

Again, Crow and Owl sat in silence. Stars, like wildflowers, began to shine across the vast field of night sky before them. 

Crow began to remember the dream of her forest being destroyed. It had scared her so much, and when she woke up to find the strange rock in her nest, she was so sure it meant danger. She shared this memory with Owl. “That was one of the first things I got terribly wrong. Because the truth is I had no idea what that rock meant, if it meant anything.”

Owl seemed very interested in the rock and Crow described it, remembering how beautiful it was. Another pause came over their conversation as they watched the stars grow brighter. 

“Oh, Owl, I then made so many mistakes in a row… it’s hard to talk about.” 

“What was the worst one?” Owl asked. 

“Ha! What a question!” Crow laughed, feeling a bit more heartened. “Well, the first worst one was telling my family that you were the enemy responsible for dropping a rock in my nest—because then they all wanted to go to war.” “Yeah, that one’s pretty bad,” Owl agreed. 

“But then the next worst mistake was being so arrogant when I met the stag that they walked away from me pitying me!” Crow was on a roll now, “and then the next worst one was how completely ignorant I was when I first met you! I was trying to impress you but didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I really just felt lost and scared and wanted a friend.” 

Owl was quiet for a while. And then said, “When we first met, you told me that you came to the mountain looking for me. Was that true?” 

“Yes and no. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for then, though I was interested in getting to know you. But after I made a mess of that conversation, my next worst mistake was kicking rocks at some snakes—”

Owl inhaled in a sharp hiss. “You did that?”

“Well, yes and no. It was an accident. And now that I think about it, I’m not sure that part was a mistake. I mean, they didn’t seem to mind. Though I don’t think I’ll be kicking rocks at anyone again,” Crow hastened to add. “But they helped me realize I was angry and then I went into this very strange dream…”  Crow fell quiet, thinking about what she had experienced in the dream. Finally, she said, “It helped me see that I went out in search of whatever it was that was threatening my forest, whatever it was that was scaring me so much that it had the power to ruin my sense of safety. And I did find it, but it was me, not you.”

There was another long, long quiet. Only once Owl spoke again did Crow notice that Owl had moved much closer to her.

“It sounds like that last dream was a teaching dream.” Owl said. “I love teaching dreams.”

“You have them too?” Crow asked. 

“Oh, yes. When I’m lucky.” 

“Do they always show you your mistakes?”

Owl ruffled some feathers and made a sound something between a snort and a chuckle. 

“Or do owls not make as many mistakes as crows do?” Crow asked. 

“Owls make different mistakes. And yes, sometimes they teach me what I’ve gotten wrong, but sometimes my teaching dreams help me imagine something I’ve never experienced. Like this conversation.” 

“You dreamed we would meet and talk on this mountain?”

“Well, not exactly. It was more of a forest, but not like one I’ve ever been in. The air was warm and the trees heavy with bright, round fruits. But I was sharing my tree with a crow and we were talking of many things. In the dream, I had no fear of this crow.” 

Crow became aware of a new idea—just as she had been afraid of Owl, Owl had been afraid of her. She would never have known it, and Owl was barely admitting it, but she was starting to understand that owls spoke very differently from crows. They said less, but they meant a lot with every word they used. Or, she corrected herself, at least this one did. 

“That sounds like a good dream.” said Crow. 

“I think so.” said Owl. 

Together, they watched the fully darkened sky aglow with stars, each imagining a forest they’d never visited, with trees bearing bright fruits, like the bright new questions and visions that began to grow in their minds as they relaxed more fully into their conversation.

THE END.