Northstar Vale Jazz jukebox

he'd landed within the withered grasses, pristine in his whiteness, still not hidden by a snowy backdrop. 

so exposed, it was a doubtlessly heart-hammering manner of enjoying a scavenger's lunch; rotted squirrel with side of maggots.

the raven was in the midst of picking apart the intenstines. his gaze briefly passed over a most misshapen jacksnipe, waddling by, before resuming its aimless staring.

wait.

his head cocked. the string of guts was slurped into his bill.

that was no bird.