the twisty creek oblivious to the dreck that floated on its surface
blind to the evil that awaited him around the bend
ignorant to the tragedy that lured him towards its depths.
little bear heard the song of the bluebird and turned his head to listen.
it was a song about a litte bird whod fallen from his nest one night. the night his mother had flown away to chase a hawk back to his perch while his papa was long gone hunting for food.
the little bird the bluebird sang cried as little birds do but somehow knew that it might attract the wrong attention: like from that of the wolf or the swine or the rat.
so the little bird kept his mouth shut and flapped his sticky twiggy wings to absolutely no avail and if the owl had seen it, it would have hooted
before swooping down and making a midnight snack of it.
so the little bird, the baby bird, so tiny it had yet become blue did what any little bird would, he walked into the forrest
and hid in the shadows.
until he fell asleep,
shiverring in his own sweat.
the bluebird sang this song and little bear listened and the stars listened and the breeze listened and the darkness crept a little slower so it too could hear every word.
and noone noticed but the babbling brook hushed up for once to find out what would happen to the little bird out there on its own.
even though they knew what would probably happen.
but they had hope because bluebirds dont usually sing tragedies
unless their name was tony
which this bird was called
but before he could tell his tale he was startled by the caw
of a pal telling him that trouble was on the way
so straight away he flew away
leaving little bear and the night wondering if the poor little fragile
helpless little scrawny everybodyfood
made it through the night.
and little bear saw a butterfly fluttering in the moonlight
and playfully chased it
not even noticing the squoosh beneath his paw.