racing the wind

Zephyr had hardly stepped foot into the courtyard since being brought into the folds of the Hallows. The castle offered just too much - a healthy pantry, plush rugs, warm fireplaces, and plenty of capable canines around to mooch snacks from. The courtyard in comparison was too bright, the food was still alive (and ran faster than he did,) and the wind felt like cold razors beneath his fluffy unkempt down. There were, however, patches of sunlight that almost rivaled the roar of the fireplaces for warmth and comfort, and the hatchling was determined to find a way to enjoy the sun without the bite of cold from the winds.

He hopped down from the massive doorway and into the courtyard, leaning his long neck out as he waddled as if it might get him across the grasses faster. In the chick's imaginative head he was racing the wind, and surely if he managed to make it to the fencing before the next gust blew it might defend him from the cold. Tiny panicked croaks peeled from his beak as he ran, his stubby wings outstretched on either side and flapping hard.  

"Zephyr"