A massive migration of trumpter swans has crashed at a local water hot spot
Amid the quaking aspen, the Leynille was a haven of calming whispers. Even the gentlest breeze stirred the leaves and evoked the sound of gentle rainfall, audible over the sound of flowing water. Songbirds flitted from tree to tree, before disappearing off into the woodlands. Skáld came for the white noise, but as he neared the river he heard something he hadn't expected at all.
Overhead, the birds flew- magnificent, white, graceful- and they looked elegant still when they landed on the water and began to paddle around but the sounds they made were absolutely awful! His mouth fell open with surprise as he watched bird after bird land on the water, practically covering the surface and creating the illusion of a floatilla of feathers.
He'd never seen such a thing before, and chose to keep his distance. He saw the way the swans occasionally bellowed at one another, plucking feathers from those who crowded them. He wondered if they could easily be hunted...But also dreaded the thought of having every single one of them turn against him if he tried!
“Icelandic”
“English”
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