Twisted Slough Livin' at my mommas house, we'd argue every month.

For anyone with keen eyesight, it was somewhat difficult to pick out a single bird among the swaying branches of a tree; with only the one eye, Screech's efforts were futile. He didn't find the culprit of the sounds until the next volley of calls, and with a pivot to his ears he managed to get some idea of where the hawk was stationed. The boy moseyed his way among the trees until he came to a series of endlessly reaching pines. The bird was in one of these — but watching from down below made things more difficult too. He had no reason to pursue the bird (and no inclination to eat it) except to fill the void of nothingness he had found himself within. 

Screech hoisted himself up and balanced on his hind feet while his forelimbs propped him against a tree trunk, and he looked around as casually as he could; it was not a comfortable position. After the third or fourth attempt at this he thought he spotted the hawk's silhouette or, at the very least, a hawk shaped branch. It did not occur to him yet to try and speak to the bird.