The summer had been long and the streams had gone to cracked mud. The crow had been flying since morning in search of water, and by the middle of the afternoon she was not so much flying as falling forward and correcting.
In the yard of an empty house she found a pitcher. There was water in it. She could see the water and she could smell the water, and when she put her beak in she could not reach the water. It sat a hand’s depth below the rim, perfectly still, and entirely out of reach.
She tried to tip the pitcher over. It was heavy and it did not tip. She perched on the rim and stretched down until her feet slipped and she had to catch herself. Then she sat for a while and simply looked at the water, which achieved nothing at all, but is what most of us would have done.
At last she stopped looking at the water and started thinking about the pitcher.
There were pebbles in the yard. She took one in her beak, dropped it in, and watched it sink. The water rose. Not by much. By the smallest amount a thing can rise and still be said to have risen. But it rose.
So she fetched another, and another after that. It was dull work and it took a long time, and there was a stretch in the middle where the water did not seem to be moving at all and she had to carry on without any evidence that she was right.
By evening the water had climbed to meet her, and she drank until she had had enough.
What strength cannot reach, patience will often raise within reach.