The ground was cracked and baking under the sun. An old clay pitcher sat half-hidden in a bush's shade. The crow flew down and landed beside it.
The crow peered inside. Only a thin ribbon of water glinted at the bottom. It let out a long thirsty sigh.
The crow jabbed its beak into the pitcher — once, twice, three times. But the rim was too narrow. The water was just out of reach.
Crow looked around. Scattered nearby were smooth stones — small, light, perfect.
The crow grabbed a stone and dropped it into the pitcher. CLINK. Then another. And another. The water rose — just a little.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK. With every stone, the water climbed higher. The crow worked fast, tail feathers quivering with excitement.
CLINK went the last stone. The water rose to the very lip. The crow dipped its beak and drank deep — cool, clear, perfect.
With a satisfied caw, the crow hopped onto the pitcher's rim and settled down. Its feathers puffed out in pure contentment.
The sun still baked the hard ground around the bush. But here, in the small pocket of shade, everything felt different.
The crow tucked its head against its breast and closed its eyes. Something light hummed inside it — a secret kind of happy.