Fate has a way of delivering to us that which we need. It may not always be what we think we need, but we often want what we do not need. This time however, Fate and I are in agreement as to what i need - a neat, little, bird.

An ear revolves on my cranium like the oiled mechanism of a gun chamber, dangerous if but in part - we fear the trigger, but what of that which the trigger connects to?
The danger in my ear is neither the trigger nor the bullets laid within, but that with my ear, I have found him. I have found my little bird. He wades through the muck and the mire of the stream and the dark, delivered to me with everything but a bow.
Pity, I would have enjoyed a bow.

He comes just in time too, as the thirst I figured I had has been slaked. I am lifting my head just as his eyes find me, stabbing through the night. Water drips from my muzzle and falls back into the stream with a shiver.
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound of it crashing into itself is almost inaudible, but it's sweet in a way.

I smile, giddy with anticipation of learning. The twitch of my jagged lips, nothing near as pleasant as a smooth smile, comes just as he cuts a joke about the time of day. It may put him at ease, as smile usually do, albeit my crocodile grin can often prove more alarming than not. Either way it seems the nerves are already crawling beneath his skin, that or the cold he speaks of has him stammering so much. I had always known birds were noisy, but not to this degree. my ears slide back somewhat, trying to shelter from the raucous warbling issued from his throat.

He makes to move forward, clambering up alongside me. The nearness brings a rush to my heart and I turn my head slightly away as he mumbles a word that asks for passage, forgiveness and answers all at once. My nostrils flare as breath comes in great sheets, a train barreling down an icy track that exhales its exhaust endlessly. My eyes widen, the white dancing with the orange like a melted popsicle, the kind with the cream in the center.
I'm panting, the blood's racing, the pupils' are spinning.
The time is now. So close.

Now.

I jerk my head around suddenly and reach out with my teeth for one of his primary feathers as he finishes passing by.

Whether he notices or not he continues with his chatter, attempting pleasantries when his discomfort is clear. I watch him under a tangled haze of wiry mane that had been disturbed by my quick movement. He makes me wonder, as others have before, why they feel a need to pretend. What social graces, or awkwardnessess as in this scenario, have shaped them to behave so oddly as to deny their true nature and want for the sake of exchanging pretty words? That he still begs for my name nearly sets me to tears of laughter, but I resists the humorous response, still focused on his feathers.
At least the bewilderment has calmed me down - the train has stopped.

He's waiting on me now though and I know I have the fill the void, although the silence is nice now that the bird stopped singing. He'll fly away though if I don't and I can't very well have him trying to fly when he still has so many feathers left.
"How many?" I ask casually, tilting my head as I look to him, blatantly ignoring everything else he said.

Don't manners dictate that it's rude to ask for a name before giving one anyway?
What sort of world are these foals being raise in these days.

// Baby d o l l I recognize
// you're a hideous thing inside