Crow

Long ago, before any bird wore color, the whole feathered world was a single dull shade — gray, brown, ash, and soot. The birds grew tired of looking alike. So two friends, the Crow (Quạ, the black bird of dusk) and the Peacock (Công, the patient bird of the forest), hit on a plan. Each of them was a fine painter, the cleverest with a brush in all the woods. They would take turns decorating one another, and at last the two of them would step out into the sunlight more beautiful than any creature alive.

The Crow went first. It dipped its brush and bent over the Peacock with the care of a true master. Stroke by stroke it worked the long tail feathers, laying down deep blues and shimmering greens, then ringing each one with a perfect golden eye that seemed to watch you back. It blended gold into emerald, threaded copper through teal, and stood back now and then to study its work the way a real artist does. By the time the Crow finished, the Peacock blazed like a fan of jewels. There has never been a more gorgeous bird, and there never will be.

Then it was the Crow's turn. It handed over the brush and waited, fluffing itself up, dreaming of the splendor about to land on its own wings. But just as the Peacock lifted the brush, word came rushing through the trees — a great feast was being laid out across the valley, with food enough for every bird who arrived early.

The Crow's patience snapped. "Hurry!" it cried. "Don't fuss with the colors — just pour the whole pot over me and let's go!" The Peacock hesitated. Good work takes time, it said; let me do this properly. But the Crow would not hear it. It thrust its body forward, snatched at the bowl, and tipped the entire mixture of paint over itself in one greedy splash.

And so every color the world had to offer — every blue, every gold, every green — ran together at once into a single muddy, lightless black. It dried that way: flat, plain, and dull from beak to tail. By the time the Crow reached the feast it was too late for the food, and far too late for its feathers. It would wear that hasty black forever.

That is why, the old folk say, the Peacock walks the forest dressed like a king while the Crow sulks in its drab coat, cawing its rough complaint. The Crow had all the talent in the world. What it lacked was the one thing talent cannot replace — the patience to let beauty be finished. "Haste makes waste," the grandmothers tell the children, pointing at the two birds. A peacock's splendor and a crow's plain black: why rush for a single moment, only to regret it for a lifetime?