Sleepy Fox Hollow piltover

he jumps from one
absurdly reedish leg to the other;

they fight they clash they kick they!
so much physical contact!

bad!

he rests his slender beak to his thin throat
sussurating and reflecting how unnatural! how brutish!

the dance of his own species far more elegant
than the gritty punch-by-punch crucible of horses.

fuckin' horses.

he eyes the trotting foal and her geriatric counterpart
notes the soft eyes of both mares

and decides things are far safer from a distance.

with a grunt his broad wings beat down flurries of snow and grass
blue mist pivots north and circles; a disapproving shadow circling high above.