Secret of the Rez Crow

Crows on the Rez know how to keep their secrets unless you know what to ask and how to listen.

The earth beneath your feet is thick with history; every footstep stirs the dust of those who walked before. If you stand still long enough, quiet enough, the ground might remember you. It might whisper something if it thinks you are ready to hear.

The land and its inhabitants—crows, trees, stones—are keepers of memory. They watch us with quiet patience, waiting for us to ask the right questions, to remember what we’ve forgotten.

The stories are there, beneath the surface, woven into the earth itself. You can feel it in the way the wind shifts, in the faint tremor beneath the soles of your feet.

The crow is always speaking if you know how to listen. When the sun sets and the sky streaks red, they fly in slow, deliberate circles as if tracing the outlines of forgotten paths in the air.

The crows perch like shadows on the high branches, their eyes glinting like obsidian in the dying light. They are witnesses, observers of all that has been and will be.

They know the stories the wind carries—the old stories that have slipped beyond human memory. They secret those stories in their wings, in the spaces between their sharp cries.

The crows do not speak in words. They speak in silence and pauses between the beats of their wings and the rustle of leaves.

It is not the language of humans, bound by sounds and syllables, but something older, something woven into the fabric of the world itself. It is a language of time and space, of breath and shadow.

They have no use for the trivial questions of the present. The crows do not care about the fleeting worries of the human heart, but they know the deep questions we hesitate to ask. They carry with them the weight of time, of things that stretch far beyond our narrow understanding.

It is best to learn to listen to what they do not say. The answers are not in the noise of this world but in the spaces between, in the shifting of the wind, in how the grass bends as if brushing against a secret too fragile to be heard aloud.

Beneath their black feathers are questions. Questions that haunt the spaces of your mind, that slip in between the sharp calls when the world is quiet. They know things we have forgotten, things the land remembers for us, things it has been keeping safe for generations.

There is something sacred in the silence, something that the crows guard with their watchful eyes. They have seen the world change and land reshaped, but they remain. They are the keepers of time, the guardians of forgotten stories. And they wait for one to ask the right question, and to listen, to remember.

The wind shifts again, and the crows take flight. Their shadows stretch across the land, long and dark, like memories stretching back to the beginning of time. You watch them go, and for a moment, just a moment, you think you hear it—something ancient, something true—whispering in the wind.