more like wet willows

Aster shook the water from her feathers as she hunkered on a branch, quietly smoldering in her annoyance. The blue jay didn’t care about the water, but rainstorms caused the air to wonkify. Thunderstorms, especially, were the worst—but even light showers like this caused enough of a change in the air for her to distrust her wings.

What a shame, since worms and bugs surfaced during rainstorms. Aster had the patience to wait it out, though—she didn’t want to be caught on the ground when a hawk or land-dwelling predator stalked around.

As she sulked, the blue jay caught the sight of a massive wolf squelching the mud with his toes. A loner? Or one of those social ones living in packs? He certainly looked clean and healthy, so he probably had a home territory at the least. Aster considered holding her beak closed and letting him pass without a word, but she was bored with nothing to do in the rain, and this stranger peaked her curiosity.

“Hello, how’s the weather down there!” Aster chirped. She spread her wings and loudly beat them—freeing her feathers of water, but more so to politely announce where on the willow she was. Not that she feared an immediate attack; she could fly, she just didn’t want to, and the wolf would have to jump up to reach her branch.

“Who are you? Just passing through? Or looking for something—rarely have I met a wolf not looking for something, even if it’s just a windpipe to squeeze and flesh to eat. Way too much work, if you ask me, when grubs are more easily available.” The way the blue jay said that, it was obvious she didn’t intend it as an insult; from her perspective, wolves spent so much time hunting. “My name’s Aster! Oh! Your horns look very pointy.”