On an early blue sky morning I climbed the bare winter bones of the great ash tree. All was quiet, just the distant sound of a wave on sand. Then into the tree came one black cleric, soot shining feather cloak, beak like a spear, bead eyed, loud.
And soon there were more, their cloaks flapping, down from the sky they came, to shout at orange cats in the bright branches, to flap and caw. But they did not get too close, for though they are sharp of beak they are wise enough to know that we are sharp of claw.