The Tangle nereo

Louis bristled, indignant that his pleasing baritone question was answered in such a manner. He eyeballed her heavily as she clutched the cricket closer, his eyelids pulled in a dark squint. Certainly, if his beak was capable of any arrangement, it would have been pursed in a scowl.

Leaning towards her on his long, thin legs, an entirely unbirdlike noise broke from his beak: a repetitive croak. It was an old rhythm he had picked up as a fledgling, having parents which placed a nest situated precariously on the long arm of a willow-tree. A willow-tree that contently and assuredly spread its boughs out in the most awfully tepid swamp. Every night, the deafening chorus of bullfrogs would thunder through the otherwise utterly still encampment, and every night, Louis would listen rapt with inquisitive interest. The croaks that stirred from within his warbling chest were a wonderful imitation, full of deep gurgles and carrying with it the pleasant tones of a languid summer eve.

Yet abruptly, Louis fell silent. The cricket was uninteresting to him, but the bird was not. He thought a moment and then, Louis went all out in a chirrupy, sing-song banter. "This is Itsy's. Itsy's catch, Itsy's food. This is Itsy's. Itsy's catch, Itsy's food. This is Itsy's. Itsy's catch, Itsy's food." And then, silence again. He tilted his head and fixed her with an impishly keen eye, swaying back and forth delightedly on the thin branch.