Chameleon Magazine

High in the mountains where the winds are wild and the sun burns white, there lived an eagle whose wings could carve through clouds. Below him, a restless murder of crows gathered each dawn, cawing among the pines.

“Look at him,” said one crow, black feathers slick with envy. “He thinks he owns the sky.”

“Let’s remind him who rules the air below,” another hissed.

And with a flurry of dark wings, they rose.

The bravest crow darted forward and landed upon the eagle’s back, pecking at his neck, jeering between strikes. “Come down, mountain king! Let’s see how high you fly with me upon you!”

But the eagle said nothing. He did not twist, nor claw, nor cry out. Instead, he opened his wings and caught the wind.

Higher he rose.

The forests shrank.

The air thinned.

The world became quiet.

The crow kept pecking, but the sound was lost to the silence above the clouds. His wings began to tremble. His breath came in gasps. “Coward!” he croaked, though even he could not hear his own voice anymore.

The eagle rose still higher, eyes calm, unshaken by the struggle on his back. And soon, the crow’s grip failed. With a desperate flutter, he fell, tumbling through the wide and empty air until he vanished into the mist below.

The other crows circled far beneath, muttering, their noise faint and meaningless against the vast, clear sky. The eagle did not look down. He rode the wind where no crow could follow, where the air was pure and the silence deep.

“Do not fight the noise—rise above it, and it will fall away on its own.”