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Speaker 1: Max, settle in the attic is very still tonight. The

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shadows in the corners are soft and fuzzy like wool.

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And look at the jar. It's waking up, but it's

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taking its time. It's not a flash or a sparkle tonight.

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It's a slow, steady pulse, a deep, rich golden color

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like honey that's been warmed by the sun. It feels solid,

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doesn't it. It looks strong like like it's not in

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a hurry, but it's not going to stop either. That

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is exactly right, Max. It has a heavy, comforting rhythm

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to it. The story Light wants to give us a

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word that is all about that steadiness. I'm going to

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think it now and I want you to catch it

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inside your mind. The word is persistence. It's a big word,

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but it means something very simple. It means keeping going,

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one small drop at a time, even when the job

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feels big. Watch the lid now. The light is lifting out,

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drifting across the room like a slow golden leaf finding

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its way to gramps.

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Speaker 2: Hmm.

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Speaker 3: I felt that warmth arrive before I even saw it.

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It's settled right here in my beard, heavy and grounding,

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and oh I know this glow. It's the color of

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dried wheat in the late afternoon. It's a story about

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a bird with feathers as black as a moonless night,

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and a summer that was hotter than anyone could remember.

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But mostly it's a story about how doing one small

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thing over and over again can move a mountain. Are

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you comfortable? Max? Is the blanket pulled up? The story

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light is amber now the listening glow. Let's listen to

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the tale of the Crow and the Pitcher. Once a

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long time ago, in a valley that was usually green

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and singing with brooks, a great silence had fallen. The

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sun had woken up angry that year. It stared down

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at the earth day after day, unblinking and fierce, like

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a copper coin burning a hole in the sky. The grass,

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which usually swayed like soft hair, had turned brittle and brown.

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It crunched underfoot. The mud at the river banks had

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cracked into dry puzzle pieces, and the water the water

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had simply vanished. It had retreated into the sky or

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hidden deep underground, leaving the creatures of the valley thirsty

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and searching.

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Speaker 1: It must have been so quiet. Cramps when it's that hot,

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even the air feels too tired to move.

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Speaker 3: It was a heavy, dusty, silent, sloomy. The crickets were

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too tired to churn. The frogs had buried themselves deep

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in the cool earth, waiting for rain that wouldn't come.

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But high above the shimmering fields, one bird was still flying.

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It was Corvous, the crow. His wings were broad and strong,

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glossy black against the pale, bleached sky. But even Corvous

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was tired. His throat felt like sandpaper, his beak was

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dry and dusty. He had flown over the dried up creek,

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over the empty horse trough, and over the hollow log

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where the rain usually gathered. Nothing, just dry leaves skittering

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in the hot breeze.

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Speaker 1: He must have been scared if he didn't find water soon.

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Speaker 3: He was worried. Max His wings felt heavier with every

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flap flap, flap, glide. He wasn't rushing anymore. He was

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conserving his strength. He saw an old farmhouse in the distance,

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abandoned and quiet. A garden wall crumbled nearby, covered in

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dusty ivy that had turned brown at the edges, And there,

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sitting in the shadow of the wall was something that

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didn't look like a rock, and didn't look like a log.

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Speaker 1: A picture, like a jug.

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Speaker 3: That's right, Max, A tall clay pitcher, old and weathered,

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with a narrow neck and a wide round belly. It

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had been left there by a garden long ago. Corvus

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circled once, then twice, and landed on the crumbling wall.

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His claws clicked against the stone. He hopped down, his

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feathers rustling. He tipped his head to the side, looking

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at the pitcher with one bright, intelligent eye. He hopped closer.

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He could smell something, not dust, not dry grass. He

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smelled wet clay. He smelled dampness.

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Speaker 1: There was water inside.

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Speaker 3: He fluttered up to the rim of the pitcher and

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peered down. It was dark inside, cool and shadowy, and

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there at the very bottom, gleaming like a trapped moon,

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was water. It wasn't a lot, and it was far

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far down. Corvos stretched his neck. He leaned as far

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as he dared, gripping the rim with his toes. He

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opened his beak, but he couldn't reach it. The neck

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of the pitcher was too narrow for him to squeeze into,

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and the water was too low for his beak to touch.

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He strained. He stretched until his muscles ached, but his

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beak just brushed the dry clay walls inches above the

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cool liquid.

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Speaker 1: That's almost worse, isn't it To see the water and

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smell it, but not be able to touch it.

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Speaker 3: It is a hard feeling glomy Corvs pulled his head back.

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He was frustrated. He cowed a rough, dry sound that

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scratched his throat. He looked at the picture. It was

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just an object. Surely he could defeat it. He tried

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to push the pitcher with his wing, thinking he could

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knock it over and drink the water as it spilled

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onto the ground. He shoved, He pushed, He braced his

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feet against the earth, and heaved with all his might.

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But the picture was heavy, made of thick ancient clay,

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and it was half buried in the soil. It didn't budge.

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It stood there, solid and stubborn, guarding its treasure.

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Speaker 1: Maybe he could break it like an egg.

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Speaker 3: He thought of that. He flew up into the air,

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circled and dove down, striking the side of the pitcher

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with his hard beak. Thunk. It wasn't the sound of

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cracking pottery. It was a dull, solid, thud that rattled

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his teeth. The pitcher was too strong. He tried again, thunk.

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Nothing happened except a little cloud of dust puffs and

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a sore beak. Corvus stopped. He was panting now, his

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beak open to catch the air. He was hotter than

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before and thirstier than before. He looked at the pitcher.

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He looked at the dry ground. It seemed and impossible,

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a problem too big for a bird.

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Speaker 1: But the word is persistent smacks. Persistence doesn't mean being

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strong enough to break the jar. It means finding another

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way and sticking to it exactly.

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Speaker 3: Corvus sat very still. He watched the ground. He saw

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the pebbles scattered around the base of the wall, small

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gray stones, smooth ones, jagged ones. He looked at a pebble,

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Then he looked at the picture. An idea sparked in

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his clever mind. It wasn't a big, flashy magic spell.

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It was a simple thought about physics. If I cannot

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go down to the water, he thought, maybe the water

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can come up to me with the stones. He picked

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up a pebble in his beak. It was small, it

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weighed almost nothing. He hopped to the rim of the pitcher.

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He let go blink. The pebble fell into the darkness.

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A second later, blew a tiny splash. The water swallowed

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the stone. Corvus looked down. The water hadn't moved. It

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looked exactly the same. One pebble wasn't enough to make

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a difference, not even a tiny bit.

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Speaker 1: Most people and most birds would stop there. They'd say,

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I tried and it didn't work.

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Speaker 3: They would because the change was too small to see.

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But Corvus didn't stop. He flew down. He picked up

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another pebble. He flew up, blink bloop, Still no change.

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He went back another pebble, and another. He fell into

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a rhythm, fly down, pick up, fly up, drop clack splash,

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clack splash. The sun beat down on his back. His

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wings were heavy, his thirst was a burning ache. But

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he didn't think about the thirst. He just thought about

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the next pebble, Just one more.

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Speaker 1: How many did he do?

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Speaker 3: Dozens? Smacks, hundreds maybe? The pile of stones at the

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bottom of the pitcher grew slowly, so slowly you couldn't

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see it happening. The stones took up space, and because

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they took up space, the water had to move. It

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had nowhere to go but up. Plink, splash. Corvus looked down.

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The water was a little higher now, it wasn't at

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the bottom any more. It was climbing the walls.

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Speaker 1: He must have been so tired, but seeing the water rise,

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that must have been the fuel he needed.

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Speaker 3: It was the magic of effort, loomy. He kept going.

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The shadows of the afternoon started to stretch out long

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and purple. Corvas didn't stop one more, He told himself,

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just one. The water rose past the belly of the pitcher.

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It rose into the neck. It was dark and cool

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and inviting. He dropped a large white stone gloop. The

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water rippled. It was close now, he could smell it

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stronger than ever.

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Speaker 1: He's almost there.

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Speaker 3: He picked up one last stone, a small, round one.

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He dropped it in The water level trembled, rose up

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and touched the very rim of the pitcher. It sat there,

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a perfect shimmering circle of life. Corvus didn't rush. He

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lowered his head gently. He dipped his beak into the cool,

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clear w He drank. It was the sweetest coldest water

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he had ever tasted. It washed away the dust, It

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cooled his throat. He drank until he was full. Then

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he sat on the rim of the pitcher, looking at

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the setting sun, feeling the cool water inside him and

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the pile of pebbles below him. He had moved a mountain, Max,

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but he had done it, one little stone at a time.

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Speaker 1: He didn't give up. The story is resting now, Gramps.

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The light in your beard is shifting. Look, Max, the

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amber is fading, turning into a soft, warm, rose gold,

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like the color of the horizon when the sun has

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just gone down. The story is done telling us what happened.

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Now it wants us to feel how it happened.

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Speaker 3: Yes, the book is closing, but the garden is opening.

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We are going to step inside, Max, just for a

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little while, to see corvas and understand what that persistence

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feels like in our own hands.

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Speaker 1: Can we help him? I like pebbles.

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Speaker 3: I think he might be working on something else. Now

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let's go and see. Imagine. The heat is gone, Max.

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It's evening in the garden now the air is warm.

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But gentle.

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Speaker 1: Here we are. The old stone wall is right there.

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The ivy is rustling in a cool breeze. Now, and look,

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there is corvus. He is on the ground near a

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patch of dry soil where a tiny drooping flower is

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trying to grow. He looks big up close. His feathers

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are shiny like rainbows.

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Speaker 3: He is very calm. Let's approach him slowly. He knows

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we are here.

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Speaker 1: Hello crow, you drank the water. That was clever.

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Speaker 3: He is looking at umacs. He is nodding his head.

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Look at what he is doing now. He is picking

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up small twigs one by one.

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Speaker 1: He's building something, isn't he. It looks like a little

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shelter around that tiny flower, to protect it from the wind.

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The crow that's going to take forever. The twigs are

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so small, and the wind is blowing them away sometimes.

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Look that one just fell over. Doesn't that make you mad?

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Speaker 4: It doesn't make me mad, little one. It just makes

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me notice the wind is doing what wind does? I

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am doing what I.

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Speaker 1: Do That you have to start all over again.

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Speaker 4: No, I do not start all over. I only pick

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up this twig. If I look at the whole wall,

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my wings feel heavy. If I look at the whole night,

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I feel tired. But if I look at this one twig,

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it is light.

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Speaker 1: He's right, Max. Look, he places the twig back. He

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doesn't rush it. He places it carefully. He waits to

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see if it holds.

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Speaker 4: Fell again, then I will play again. Being angry burns energy.

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Little one like flying against the wind. Being patient saves energy.

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I have time, The flower has time. We are just.

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Speaker 1: Here.

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Speaker 3: You see Max. He isn't fighting the wind. He is

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working with it. He breathes slow when he works. Can

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you hear it?

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Speaker 1: He's really steady. He adjusted it. Now it stays.

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Speaker 4: It stays now the next one. You see. The water

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did not come to me because I was magic. It

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came because I did not stop. You can carry a

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mountain if you carry it as sand.

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Speaker 1: You can carry a mountain if you carry it as sand.

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That feels true, doesn't it. It feels like you don't

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have to rush, You don't have to worry about the ending.

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You just do the next small thing. He placed another one,

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and another one. The flower looks safer now, it stops shivering.

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Speaker 4: It grows slowly, like feathers growing on a wing, like

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sleep coming to a tired bird. One blink, then another blink.

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You do not have to try to sleep, You just

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rest one eye, then the other.

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Speaker 3: I think we've found what we came for.

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Speaker 1: I think so too. We have felt the weight of

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the pebble and the lightness of doing just one thing,

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the story light, Max. It is cooling. The rose gold

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is melting away, turning into a deep, soft lavender blue,

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the color of twilight, the color of dreams.

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Speaker 3: And look, the garden wall is fading. The air is

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shimmering again, but not with heat, with softness. The dream

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gate is appearing. It's right there between the ivy vines,

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a gentle opening into the quiet.

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Speaker 1: It looks so peaceful. Are we going through? We are?

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The story light is drifting out of Gramp's beard to

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show us the way, just a little floating star. Let's

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follow it slowly, step by step through the gate, leaving

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the heat behind, leaving the work behind.

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Speaker 3: And here we are Nocturnia. Oh, Max, take a breath.

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Here the air is cool and sweet. We're at the

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whispering riverbed tonight.

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Speaker 1: The water it's singing a really quiet song.

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Speaker 2: Burbal hush, burbal hush. It sounds like it's breathing too.

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Speaker 3: The ground here is covered in smooth, round stones, but

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they are soft, like felt. You can walk on them

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and they massage your feet. Every step feels like a

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little rest, soft step, soft.

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Speaker 1: Step, look up, Max. The sky is a deep, velvety indigo.

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The stars aren't twinkling fast. They are glowing steadily, like

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little lanterns that never go out. And look who is

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with us? It's Corvus. But he's a dream crow. Now

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he's made of soft shadows and starlight. He's walking by

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the riverbank. He isn't working anymore. He is moving so slowly.

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Speaker 3: That is the persistence. He carried it all this way

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in his beak. It's a glowing pebble. Now he is

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walking to the water's edge. The dream tree's roots come

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down to drink. Here do you see them, big mossy

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roots curling into the stream, drinking up.

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Speaker 1: The quiet corvas is leaning down. He is placing the

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glowing pebble right where the root meets the water. He

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isn't dropping it. He is placing it gently, like he

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is tucking it into bed.

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Speaker 5: The roots holding it. The light is spreading into the tree,

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up the trunk and into the leaves.

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Speaker 3: The tree glows a little brighter, then dims. It has

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accepted the word persistence is resting. Now you don't have

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to keep trying, Max, You don't have to keep working.

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The pebbles are all put away, The twigs are all

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put away.

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Speaker 1: Corvus is tucking his head under his wing. He is

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standing on one leg, steady and still. He is asleep,

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and we should leave him to his rest. The dreamgate

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is waiting to take us back.

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Speaker 3: Let's walk back along the river bank. Don't rush. Feel

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your legs getting heavy with every step, heavy like the

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stones in the water, sinking down, comfortable and still.

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Speaker 1: Through the gate, gently now drifting back away from Nocturnia,

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back towards the attic. The air is getting warmer, the

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room is getting steady.

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Speaker 3: And here we are home. The attic is just as

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we left it, only quieter. The bed is underneath you,

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solid and sure. The pillow is holding your head. The

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blanket is wrapped around you like a warm hug.

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Speaker 1: The story light is slipping out of gramps his beard,

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now drifting back towards the jar. But before I close it,

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let's just notice how still we are.

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Speaker 3: I'm going to take a long, slow breath in and

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let it all the way out. You can do that too, Max,

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Just letting the air leave your body.

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Speaker 1: Shoulders dropping down away from your ears, jaw loose, teeth

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not touching, hands, resting open with nothing.

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Speaker 3: To hold, you don't have to figure anything out. Tonight.

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Questions can rest too, if a thought comes. It's just

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a leaf floating down a river. Let it float by.

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Speaker 1: Everything is finished, The jar is waiting. There it goes.

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The light is inside. I'm closing the lid. Now it's closed.

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The magic is sleeping. You are safe, you are loved,

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and the night is very very quiet. Good Night, Max,

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Good night, sleepy listener. That was a good one, Loomy,

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I think I'm just about sleep. Good Night

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Speaker 3: By A B n U n