The sun hung fat and hot over the garden. The crow, feathers dusty and beak parted, landed hard on the wrought-iron table. Its talons gripped the warm metal.
There sat the pitcher.
Clear glass. Tall. A sliver of water gleamed at the bottom like a secret.
The crow stepped closer, circled it. It jabbed its beak into the narrow mouth — dry. It leaned farther. Its neck strained. Still nothing. The water was there but unreachable, like fruit on the wrong side of a fence.
It cawed softly, a frustrated wheeze. Then it tried again. Harder.
The glass rang out as beak hit wall.
It hopped back. Thought, or something close to it, swirled in its dark eyes. Then instinct took over. It flew to the edge of the table, scanned the yard. A small plastic pot lay on its side nearby. The crow swooped down, pecked at it. Nothing. It flapped up to a gutter, searched for dew. Dry.
Back on the table, it paced.
It eyed the pitcher again.
The water hadn’t moved. But something else had.
A round stone had shifted loose from the flowerbed below. Just barely out of place, like the earth had exhaled.
The crow didn’t see a solution. Not yet. But it saw a thing it could move.
It dropped down, snatched the pebble, and flew up. The weight made its wings labor. It reached the rim and dropped it in.
Plunk.
The water wobbled. A faint ripple. Almost nothing.
But the crow leaned over, and the surface was a breath closer.
It froze.
Then it looked out at the garden.
The bed was full of pebbles. Hundreds. Maybe more.
The next hour was work.
Drop. Flap. Pick. Drop. Again.
The stones weren’t heavy, but together they wore on it. Its wings drooped. Its breathing grew ragged. Twice it fumbled and let a stone slip short. Once it sat on the edge of the table for a long moment, chest rising and falling, before forcing itself back down.
The water climbed.
It wasn’t a fast change. It wasn’t magic. But stone by stone, effort by effort, the pitcher began to fill.
At last, the crow landed with a wobble, wings shivering. It leaned over the rim. The water waited — high, clear, still.
It drank.
The cool wet ran down its throat like mercy.
In the hedge, the blue jay jeered.
The crow didn’t answer.
It took one last sip, feathers fluffed in satisfaction, and lifted into the sky, leaving the glass behind — full now, because it hadn’t given up.
Curious how much is AI? Read the prompts here.