Whenever a crow grows old, feels its body has grown weak, and its claws too frail to swiftly swoop down on prey for itself and its children, it does not fly to a desolate place to await its death.
Instead, it flies for miles, each wingspan stronger with sheer willpower, to a faraway mountain where it sheds its claws, grits the old beak on a rough stone edge and will itself into a transfiguration, a rebirth. So, the next time it flies back to familiar territory and company, it is virtually a new being. I guess this is how these birds are able to live longer than human beings.