There’s something quietly piercing about letting a crow do the speaking here, Tahir.
By choosing a witness without stakes or sentimentality, you strip away excuses and leave only contrast: intelligence versus care, complexity versus cohesion.
The observations don’t feel accusatory—they feel tired, as if the world has been seen too many times to be shocked by itself.
And that final note of hope, so restrained it almost disappears, is what makes it land.
Not really redemption, not awakening—just the possibility of noticing.
Thank you, Mark. The idea of the crow watching us is meant to remind us to be more watchful of our own actions. All we really need is to show our better side and stay open to learning from one another.
The crow remains hopeful, and so do I. I truly appreciate you reading the piece with such care.
Tahir, this felt like sitting quietly beside a fire while someone tells a story that knows more than it says. I loved the choice of the crow as witness. Not above the world. Not outside it. Just attentive, unsentimental, patient. There’s a real tenderness in the way the animals listen to one another, and a sadness that never tips into accusation.
What stayed with me most was that line about thinking being “too heavy.” It landed like a small bell. In a very gentle way, it points to something bhakti has always whispered — that seeing isn’t an achievement of intellect, but a softening of attention, a turning of the heart. The crow doesn’t preach or save anyone; it simply watches, waits, remembers. That restraint feels honest.
By the end, the cold becoming a blanket felt almost merciful. Not resolution, not redemption — just presence. Thank you for sharing something so still and observant. It lingered with me longer than I expected.
Thank you, Urvasi. Your words feel like they grew from the same tree as the piece itself. I’m especially grateful for how you heard that line about thinking being “too heavy.” We often consider ourselves higher, yet forget that other creatures might quietly judge us.
The crow was never meant to stand above or apart, only to remain present and attentive, as you so beautifully put it. That quiet restraint, that careful listening, mattered more to me than any resolution. I hope we can meet the everyday crow living inside us.
I appreciate you sitting with them so patiently, and letting their words linger in the stillness.
There’s something quietly piercing about letting a crow do the speaking here, Tahir.
By choosing a witness without stakes or sentimentality, you strip away excuses and leave only contrast: intelligence versus care, complexity versus cohesion.
The observations don’t feel accusatory—they feel tired, as if the world has been seen too many times to be shocked by itself.
And that final note of hope, so restrained it almost disappears, is what makes it land.
Not really redemption, not awakening—just the possibility of noticing.
A cold, watchful, and thoughtfully humane piece.
Thank you, Mark. The idea of the crow watching us is meant to remind us to be more watchful of our own actions. All we really need is to show our better side and stay open to learning from one another.
The crow remains hopeful, and so do I. I truly appreciate you reading the piece with such care.
Love it, Tahir! Amazing post! 💖👏🏼
Thank you, Aster! Your support truly means a lot to me.
Tahir, this felt like sitting quietly beside a fire while someone tells a story that knows more than it says. I loved the choice of the crow as witness. Not above the world. Not outside it. Just attentive, unsentimental, patient. There’s a real tenderness in the way the animals listen to one another, and a sadness that never tips into accusation.
What stayed with me most was that line about thinking being “too heavy.” It landed like a small bell. In a very gentle way, it points to something bhakti has always whispered — that seeing isn’t an achievement of intellect, but a softening of attention, a turning of the heart. The crow doesn’t preach or save anyone; it simply watches, waits, remembers. That restraint feels honest.
By the end, the cold becoming a blanket felt almost merciful. Not resolution, not redemption — just presence. Thank you for sharing something so still and observant. It lingered with me longer than I expected.
Thank you, Urvasi. Your words feel like they grew from the same tree as the piece itself. I’m especially grateful for how you heard that line about thinking being “too heavy.” We often consider ourselves higher, yet forget that other creatures might quietly judge us.
The crow was never meant to stand above or apart, only to remain present and attentive, as you so beautifully put it. That quiet restraint, that careful listening, mattered more to me than any resolution. I hope we can meet the everyday crow living inside us.
I appreciate you sitting with them so patiently, and letting their words linger in the stillness.