Because a crow’s tasks are relatively routine—a little flying, foraging, and cawing—it isn’t necessary for them to lay out a detailed itinerary, but some birds are different. Some might say these birds are fastidious, which simply means they want their days to proceed in an orderly fashion, as they should. So, our friend Crow was sitting on the sturdy limb of his grand ol’ oak, pondering what he would do with what he liked to think of as an opportunity. The black bird was known to say that each sunrise presents another one. Opportunity, that is.

Although this might strike some as odd, the black bird would sometimes think out loud while making his plans. More often than not, the bird was speaking to his tree. You can rest assured, he by no means expected an answer, but he often wondered if his friend could hear him. You read that correctly. Crow considered all trees to be his friends.

It is well known among the animals that trees—and plants, for that matter—are alive. It is further understood that oak trees, like his, communicate with one another through their root systems. However, it is a rare animal that has deciphered their speech, and it is more often those that live underground that can interpret such rumblings. Thus, it is wise to treat members of the forest with the utmost respect. After all, the oak did not only offer Crow a perch. This was the bird's home—all 100 rings of it.

Crow was perched on a twisting branch with a crimson red scarf around his neck and a beige overcoat buttoned to the collar. It was from here that he was afforded a clear view of the glade, which is simply an open space in the woods filled with short grasses. In this case, the glade was a frequent gathering place for the animals in the crow's small township, which was known as Third Fork Creek. 

It might be for this reason that the black bird felt it necessary to rouse early each morning to enjoy what he might have referred to as an unencumbered view of the clearing below. The gray predawn also allowed him to preen in peace while giving him a chance to commune with what he referred to as the rhythms of the forest. Many of the other animals would have found it odd for him to suggest this since most of the songbirds had yet to commence their full chorus. However, the crow was listening to something else that was interrupted only by the occasional chirp of a grasshopper or cricket. One might say that what he was listening to was not a sound at all—at least not one that the ears can perceive.

Perhaps you are like the other animals that find such notions difficult to understand, so allow me to continue by saying that while birds do not have outer ears like humans, the ears they possess beneath their feathers afford them keen hearing. In Crow’s case, the feathers over his ears were exceedingly dark. Black as night, but their color made little difference when distinguishing the various bugs around him. And what sounds did these insects make, you ask? Some buzzing, and some trilling, but the specific chirp was not important to the black bird because the sound of an insect meant only one thing to him: it meant breakfast.

Where was I before I started talking about the glade beyond the old oak tree? The meadow did offer Crow a veritable feast of insects, but there was something else. Oh, yes, Crow was asking himself what he should accomplish on this glorious day. And wouldn't you know it? He'd spent so much time considering the possibilities that the sun was coming up in the east, and he'd yet to eat a thing. 

This was not unusual. The black bird could spend hours lost in thought. Thoughts that were simple. Thoughts that were not so simple, and thoughts that amazed even himself. Thoughts that he thought he might jot down if crows were inclined to jot, but they’re not. If there is any drawback to being a crow, it is that they can sometimes be a little too impressed with themselves. Excessive pride often accompanies those who have not confronted very many obstacles. In other words, it takes time for a crow to realize he is just a crow and that he cannot move mountains. Then again, this is the story of a crow that very nearly did.

Crow finally laid his dark eyes on a grasshopper as it busied itself, munching on some cudweed sprawled across the forest floor. After swooping down and plucking the spindly insect from the plant, Crow returned to the safety of a limb covered with reddish-brown leaves. As you may have determined by now, it was autumn in the forest, but it is important to note that this happened to be Crow's favorite time of year. The leaves on the trees were bursting with color: bright oranges, brilliant yellows, and a deep maroon like on his old oak tree. This might seem strange, but the trees never seemed more alive to Crow than during this particular season. Some might think that spring was when a tree was being reborn, and Crow would not have disagreed, but that was also when the hardwoods were in their infancy. An entire year was spent building up to the beauty and tranquility of the autumn season.