Totoka River Hummingbird, just let me die

A creature of habit, Coelacanth divided the majority of her time between the sweet serenity of the river and the organized chaos of the sea lions’ shoals. The length and texture of her inky coat made frequent baths necessary — for if she allowed the salt to collect in her feathery fur, it formed unbecoming dreadlocks that she found inconvenient and uncomfortable — but even if this were not the case, she enjoyed the chill she found in the river’s meandering curves. Too, the possibility of seeing Marbas again led her again and again to the glassy deltas, just as a lingering desire to find again the odd-eared siren of Tara led her occasionally to the hinterlands — an impulse that she succumbed to far less frequently due to her reluctance to stray too far from the coast she and Amoxtli now called home.

Today she had wandered further than usual, following the river upstream until she reached the hillock of crying gyrfalcons — but the seamless, repetitive screeching had bred in the normally unperturbed ingénue a growing misophonia, bidding her to retrace her steps. Pinning her tufted ears against her skull in a demure expression of her dislike, she waded into the water and sighed so deeply her gently-curved sides and coal-tipped muzzle fluttered with the force of it. Bending her head, she preened the salt from the silk of her breast and the feathers on her forelegs, submerging herself completely until she shivered deliciously. The water was cooler upstream, and she found the swell of snowmelt invigorating. Again and again she dipped her head below surface, careful to clamp her ears tightly against her head to prevent water from being trapped in their sensitive canals; and she shook herself in slow-motion, allowing the salt to fall away from her atramentous fur.

Half-walking and half-wading, she made her way downstream — and was surprised at the sound of a friendly bark that broke the water-rippled silence. The wolf she saw, loose and rapturous in his play, was dappled by a finer paintbrush than the sheep she remembered, but she felt a fond recognition swell within her breast regardless; and the wolf toward whom he leapt bore stark contrast: lean and angular, with dusty black pelage, he stood with what appeared to be an enduring weariness, his head bent low as he drank. A sting of disappointment that neither of the wolves were the friends she sought quelled the glad bark that bubbled in waiting readiness; she swallowed it — not that it would have been heard — as she made a cautious, diffident approach. Fanning her tufted ears forward in hopeful friendliness, she remained in the water, her bashful seablue eyes watching Charon’s exuberant display with a touch of wistfulness.