‘Tis the Season

Image by J. J. W. Mezun. Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

“I’m late, I’m late,” muttered Sir Dimefeather as he ran up the stairs o’ his home hole, & then flapped his wings for Wasabi Woods.

There he saw the clearing already swarming with gray grouse. Most were already in the process o’ hard networking with the employers, handing in their résumeés, making light jokes that weren’t actually funny, & squeezing their faces till huge bulges appeared on their necks.

“A-as you can see here, I mixed the complementary cool colors gray & blue to show how dependable & professional I am,” 1 nervous young bird said as he pointed to his tail plummage.

But Dimefeather stood back @ a distance, as if a forcefield kept him from getting any closer by setting off his nerves.

He was fortunate: he was hidden from the carnage that ensued in that clearing due to some mislaid sign promising, “Grouse Season.”


Grouse, Match, Start