A Fairly Tale Amongst Birds

 

A Youthful Clique With A Bone To Pick

 

Locus, a fine bird, black of wing and eye speaks first. “In questions of when and where and how, it’s best to know where!”

 Focus says then…” but surely what is best of all! For after all, that’s the nub.”  His wing is equally black, and his eye glittery and sharp! "For it matters not where, if it isn't tasty and readily available!"

Locus quoth “how can what matter if you can’t find it?”

His contented chuckle/knock rattled through the forest trees. He felt he had the final word and was feeling quite wise, though only a yearling!

 

“Here, observe this fine meal of bone and flesh” says Focus, “surely, we want no better.  No finer consideration of reality pertains.” He was tripping his own argument up a bit.

Some busy beaky moments were spent with the retired rabbit.  Philosophy must wait a bit longer.  For the moment what and where seem handily in sync, being there at the same time, as it were.

***

Then in a flash of brilliant black feathers, Sister Maeve appears, majestic and late to lunch.  “It’s when that tells the tale me fine lads” says she somewhat dejectedly. “For where and what hardly matter if yer late or much too early!”  She is never too careful with her diction, as she is a matron of years, and feels no compunction to conform.

To cement the argument, she wipes her large curved beak on a handy branch, once to the north and then again to the south. Neither Locus nor Focus can gainsay that!

“Hey” says I, “you can’t parse reality like that.  None of y’all have the sense God gave a Bush Tit!”  “I suspect you of trying to use language without the logic to carry the job off."

Sister Maeve gives me an appraising, somewhat tolerant glance.

 

“Oh yes, I know,” says Sister Maeve, “in truth, time runs loosely into where, and what melts into why.  And that is not even touching how! It’s all a pretty dance with apparent contradictions and I find that, verily, the words do not describe…they prescribe!”

 💥💓💥

“For if ye dare to speak, the meaning is born as the words leave your beak, or are writ down! For even large black and speaking birds are agents of Creation."

(Now Locus and Focus must bow and bend to her. I swear they came to me before Heckle and Jeckle did!)