[ wp ] Myths tell us where things come from ( ex . echoes are from Echo , a person cursed to repeat what others said ) . Write a mythological origin story for a common modern object .

Crows have forever heralded our dead to the world beyond. As storks bring us life, crows perform a similar duty, but for their work receive our fear and mistrust. How many have sat atop an ancient tombstone listening to the whispered tales of the deceased? How many have flown through storm and chill autumn winds to see our loved ones safely on their journey? 
 
 Even in great tragedy they came to perform their duty. In a French wooded valley in 1944 war brought sorrow, death and fire. It was the last of these that raged quickly across the valley in the dry summer heat. The crows came to collect the fallen, soldier or victim alike, and they dove into the ashy black clouds in great swarms. Deep beneath they could hear the confused screams of the dead. 
 One by one they found the lost and called for them to follow, a glimmering shadow against the mountain of smoke that surrounded them. The heat tore at their wings, the violent updrafts flung them about and tall, thin burning branches seemed to reach out at them as they tried to lead their charges up and out of the furnace the valley had become. 
 
 As they struggled the fire grew worse, exhausted and suffocating they became lost, confusing up from down and whirling in all directions. Many fell alongside those they were meant to guide. Small black angels began raining down from the burning sky. 
 
 Then a single man came in riding a great red truck that held a thunderstorm in its stomach. He was garbed in clumsy layers of clothes, and he wore a burlap mask to keep the smoke from choking him. He fought the fire, clearing enough that a single clear pillar of air was able to reach out and find the blue sky beyond. More importantly he had a great red light on his truck that the crows could use to find him. 
 
 To his amazement, thousands of black crows came out of the smoke around him and circled up into the sky, each calling their thanks to him as they passed by. And each, though he could not see, with a thankful soul behind them. 
 To this day the crows remember this man and they will leave any field unmolested if it bears his likeness. They do not fear the scarecrow that looks like him, they revere it, and they still call their thanks to it as they fly by.
