The Crow and the Moth



Out of the blue, the moth contacted the crow to ask him a favor. The moth wanted program notes written for an upcoming project and she needed them ASAP. Happy to have the work, the crow accepted the commission in spite of knowing there might be difficulties—the moth had a reputation for being high-maintenance and somewhat naïve in research matters.

Thankfully, there was a producer—the bat—who made sure both parties were kept to the deadline.

The crow went forth with the research, compiled a thorough set of notes, and wrote a fairly decent draft. It began like so:

“The home of Miss Maria Barcenas was situated in the old San Antonio neighborhood of Managua…”

After turning it in, the moth had a go at editing the draft. The result was catastrophic—entire lines were moved around or removed while semi-coherent information of dubious scholarship was shoe-horned in to give “weight.”

The draft was returned with little comment on any of the changes (“I added a few things”), angering the crow and making him reconsider having taken on the job in the first place. The once decent opening line was barely recognizable.

“In the very ancient bibbidi-bobbidi known to all boos as Antonio’s neighborhood, a Lady Mary Barcelona there lived…”

The rest was an unspeakable mess.

An immediate yet polite protest to both the bat and moth fell on deaf ears. They were too enamored of the notes as they stood and all but refused any request for changes. Was there another plan of attack for the crow? Sadly, no.

After several more protests, the crow finally (and reluctantly) gave in, accepted remuneration, and vowed never to work with the moth (or bat) ever again.

Moral: Not all winged creatures are able to fly together.

(The Moth; photo: Miss Tessmacher)

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