Firefly Ravine baby did a bad, bad thing

please him she did, giving no hint of the weight to which his lessons had added. a smile wreathed his broad muzzle. "kizz ... lar," he attempted, though he was not ashamed of his butchering, merely amused. this shone through his gaze as he looked upon isleña, and then glanced to the sky. "i do like birds. i like their music, and how they look after vone another." 
indeed, in quieter times and upon warmer days, mahler made a study of the little birds who called diaspora home, coming to recognize them first by group and then by individual. sometimes even by song. "do you like birds, isleña?" he asked of her, moving along toward a copse of pines in the distance.