It strained, stretched, tried every angle. The pitcher was half-empty. The beak could not reach. A lesser bird would have moved on.
Not clever. Not brilliant. Just logical. If enough pebbles displaced the water, the water would rise to meet the beak. One stone at a time.
The crow didn't rush. Didn't doubt halfway through. Each stone dropped, each stone that barely seemed to matter, was exactly what was needed.
The crow drank. Not because of luck or genius — because it had kept going through every moment when stopping would have been easier.
The crow didn't find a shortcut. Didn't get lucky. It found the only thing that was ever going to work — one small action, repeated, for as long as it took.