Heron Lake Plateau sleeping children are still flying

It seemed that Quixote and Raven’s second living daughter came into the world laughing, as if a very funny joke told in utero still had her in stitches. Her cries, weak and feeble at first, grew in pitch and volume, only to be interrupted by tiny, burbling hiccups. She trembled like the last leaf of autumn, quaking as if from cold, and when a warm, solid swoosh of sensation enveloped her, the wibbling and the wobbling seemed only to increase. She scrabbled for a spot at the milk bar, her movements not as strong or steady at her siblings, but her will blazing like a beacon. Blunt puppy muzzle bumped blindly against the curve of Raven’s abdomen as she instinctively sought sustenance, but she couldn’t seem to get her head steady enough to feed. This was disappointing, and the once-indomitable snow bunting was easily conquered.

With a trilling coo of defeat, she rested her muzzle on her paws and huffed.