If a Crow Could Speak

I drop walnuts on roads to crack them open. Wheels are tools when you are too small; timing is a muscle; memory smells like your hand. If I could speak, I would not recite facts. I would hand you a broken shell and watch whether you understood why. This book is that hand—close, blunt, and exact. It follows the small acts that add up to a mind: the walnut, the wait, the face remembered across seasons, the dusk meeting where a thousand silent signals sort friend from threat.

Read me if you want a map of cognition that never learned words. You will find tool-use stripped of wonder and recast as necessary cleverness, counting measured in heartbeats and twigs, gossip passed by posture and time, play as trial-and-error with consequences. It is naturalist observation folded into an argument: wrong ways of listening leave whole minds invisible. The book ends not with a lecture but with a gesture—an offering you must learn to see.