“Fly away,” sang little lark to the crow,“There is no home for youAmong the broken promises and empty hearts. We drewthe life we never mourned, away with fading dark.Your wings are fashioned from the cold, mindless liesof feathers tarred with pitch!”

“What are you doing to me?” he asked the crow, tearful. Teaching you how to fly. “I can’t fly!” You’re flying right now. “I’m falling!” Every flight begins with a fall, the crow said.”

“People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can’t rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.”