The trees were just beginning to let go of their leaves when the wind brought the birds to the coast. Amid the swirling oranges, reds and gray-greens of autumn's storm, the trail-crows came wheeling from the east on their great black wings, singing their rough songs like a thousand airborne pirates warning that disaster was coming. Calamity. Cold.
Most of the time, the birds stayed in the air, riding the updrafts caused by the extreme rolling hills and cliffs of the land. Whenever they weren't flying, each trail-crow would take a place in the single-file line and tear the grass and weeds up by their roots, tilling the ground with their big black beaks, creating a path from east to west, the trail to the sun. It was said that if you followed it to the end, you would find the king of crows, and he would grant you one wish. Alas, the trail always seemed to disappear whenever the crows weren't there to maintain it, and simply going east or west never brought the desired results. The trail was the only way, as far as humans could tell, and only the crows could find--or follow--the fabled thing. Some men attempted to follow the birds everywhere they went, but eventually the creatures grew tired of the humans, and carried them out to the sea and made them fish food.
The crows did not fear men. They feared only one creature.