In the middle of summer,
at the end of a long day,
the kruk chased a white mouse up a tree.
The mouse chose the tallest tree in the grove,
but the kruk had flown far greater heights.
Finally,
upon reaching the highest limb,
the kruk devoured the mouse
and rested
after its large meal.
As it sat,
the kruk,
for the first time,
noticed the rays of the sun,
and followed them with its eyes
to their origin.
The sun,
nestled in its hazy, pillowy throne,
shone with less enthusiasm as the day wore on,
and now,
it only gave the earth red and orange lights,
as if the Indian paints covered every inch of the ground.
The kruk marveled at the way the sun could decide what the people did and did not see.
The sun held so much power,
and so much generosity,
for it gave life to the plants
and joy to the animals
when it did not receive any in return.
The kruk took so much pleasure in the light
that it returned to the high branch every morning and every evening to greet the sun,
and although it did not speak,
the sun seemed to shine brighter
when the kruk sang for it.
The visits became longer,
even as the seasons changed
and the days became shorter.
The kruk basked in the warmth that the sun provided,
and lamented when it sank below the horizon
to be replaced with the deep blue illumination of the moon and her many children.
Though the moon was beautiful,
she did not hold the same beauty for the kruk that the sun did.
The kruk soon realized that it was in love with the sun.
Of all the birds in the trees, the kruk was the smartest,
and knew that this love was a difficult one,
but determined that it would join its lover regardless.
After filling up its belly with seeds and cool river water,
and resting well through the night,
the kruk took flight at the break of dawn.
Its love propelled it upwards,
and even as the air thinned,
and its wings weakened,
it flew on.
The sun grew more stunning the closer the kruk flew,
And its glossy black feathers,
Shimmering blue and purple,
Began to singe with the heat.
The creatures on the ground below protested when the kruk began to caw in pain,
But nothing could be done for the bird.
Finally, in a black, frantic streak,
The kruk descended,
Falling through the leaves like a stone in a pond.
It was days before the kruk returned to the high perch on the tree to greet the sun.
The sun continued to shine,
Rising in the morning,
And returning to the earth at night.
No rays were spared in mourning for the disappearance of the dear kruk.
When the kruk once again fluttered upon the well-worn bough,
The animals whispered,
“The sun is too far,
The sun is too hot,
And the kruk is much too weak.”
On the high branch, the kruk hung its head at their words,
And sorrowfully shuffled further down the branch
Into the shade of the tree,
Away from the bright, hot reminder
Of the sun’s unattainable touch.
At dawn the next morning, the kruk raised a matte black beak to the sky and let out a miserable caw.
There would be no union between the two,
Nothing to warm the kruk through the night.
The kruk extended its wings in surrender to despair, and took flight,
Driving its body into the sky until the air became unbreathable
And the clouds offered no protection.
The kruk ignored the burn rippling beneath its feathers and cried out to the sun,
A wild, grief-stricken call to be accepted by its deadly embrace,
And below,
The animals could see for a brief moment,
A shadow falling over the sun.
The animals gasped and looked away,
But for a few moments,
The sun’s shine was replaced with a melancholic glow.
A dark hole of blackness was cast,
Only a small ring of light twinkling around the edges of the sudden shroud,
And the wildlife shuddered in the unexpected coolness.
After its last cry,
The kruk never returned.
The animals do not speak of that day,
But once every century,
The earth remembers,
Covered in a darkness so complete,
That one can only think of a lost, forlorn disciple,
Flying into an unknown fire
And imploring it to love.