To think, my disdain for the overrated Russell Crowe nearly dissolved my allegiance to the mighty lustrous species of the crow.

The crow had flown for four long non-stop days at the beckoning of an urgent call from the spirits of nature. Its once steady flapping wings reduced to erratic near-floundering spastic thrusts. During this mockery of flight, a solitary black wing detached itself from the crow and fell to earth.

The feather wafted slowly, left to right, this way and that, caught in a gentle breeze, descending as one may imagine a Pringles® chip would. A skulk of hungry foxes circled below. Lest this be a better tale told tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the crow had reached its destination. As it swooped down, it released a sigh of relief. All this against the wind flying was taking a serious physical toll.

Gathered around a pale-skinned man lying and convulsing on his back on the ground were the usual suspects, the other representatives of Native American folklore: the coyote, the near-redundant fox, the buffalo, the badger, the deer, and the Shaman mystic.

To the crow’s surprise, also in attendance were the sperm whale, the talking pork chop and the enormous metallic being known as Optimus Prime® of the Transformers®.

The buffalo approached the crow, “Another false alarm. Just a stupid white guy freaking on peyote.”

The exasperated crow spit, “What’s up with these new guys?”

The buffalo exhaled slowly, partly out of disgust, partly out of poor health. “The balls tripping honky is one of those Gen Xers.”

The two nodded in silence as ominous black clouds rolled in above them.