Adorned by the brittleness of his aching spirit, the Magpie watches himself in the reflective stream and nods approvingly. His kins would be proud, if they could see him stretch out his nestled wings and glide inches above the water surface.
It is a good day. And it going to get better.
Victory is in the waddling stream, it is in the harvest of the trees rootling. It is in the squeals of the busy beavers. It is in his brother’s pea-sized eyes.
For years and years, his kind had been predated, and hunted down. He remembers his dear mate lying on the zenith of an Alpine mountain, try as he could, her small heart palpated and went silent before she thought of giving up. Stricken down by some hunter fellow. What woes trails the magpie’s life. Loneliness settled faster than the snowy blizzard that brewed on the day that the colours from his flamboyant feathers turned bland…until now.
He gripped the soil underneath his talon and pushed with all his little might. The time to mourn had come and gone. Today he smelt victory in the fields. He’d advocate it all day long
“Hello”, he yelled to the Robin
“Salute”, he tweeted to Frau Puffin
And then he settled on jenny’s windowsill and sang the most serene symphony she’s heard in a while.
When they asked him why he was so ecstatic with curiosity dripping from their lips, he winced and flipped and giggled and said, It’s going to be good day after all, as he pecked off the crust of jenny’s shepherd pie