It was not long before the wounded old crow realised that he could make it little further. His head was swimming and to his vast shame he was not entirely sure of his bearings. He could discern no sign in the skies around him of the vast murder on the move. This in itself was disquieting, but combined with what he felt was his impending demise, it was crushing. His mind flickered forwards however, now discarding logic for a more emotive motivation.
He dipped his left wing and swung awkwardly about, trading altitude for speed, sparing his strength. His pinions were badly hurt and keeping level was exhausting. He allowed himself a more ragged flight, aware he was a sitting duck for any would be predator, in any case. A return to the battlefield and the last feast…it was a fitting end…
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mitakaw, on the other hand, was far from giving up. His actions during the fight, in particular the ordering and movement of the murder away from certain suffocation by the awakening trees, if not fodder for the arrows of the strawheads, had not gone unnoticed by everyone. There was something of a loose armistice in the glance he received from Akaaw, although the Chief was wisely short-tongued at present, after being so close to the black skies of death. He was giving his lieutenants short-shrift at that very moment, as it happened. The murder was attaining shape in flight around them, a three-dimensional wedge forming, with Akaaw's fist of birds smoothly headed toward the point. Mitakaw inched closer, trained by the best to suck in all information, especially murder politik.
[ January 23, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
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And all the rest is literature
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