[ by the evening of march 6th, a storm seems to be brewing ahead; far into santa rosita's woodland area rumbles the strike of lightning, but if one were to look— no clouds. it's a clear afternoon soon to be ebbing into dusk, and surely you'll be able to count all the stars in the sky. what you might not have been counting on hearing were massive, rhythmic claps above and overhead. it blocks out the remaining sunset (or moon, depending on the time) and doesn't make a sounding cry beyond its wings that jarred like thunder with each beat. it's a golden-white bird that could've been larger than it was, a scary thought, at eight feet with a wingspan twice its height. winds brew and clatter phone lines, wood groans with protest or even hats get caught in the miniature gusts made from its survey. oh, what a lovely bird! neighbors might say if you ask, as if talking about a backyard finch. naturally, they don't notice a thing out of the ordinary (and probably don't want to).

after the sixth, the bird will only occasionally and rarely soar at roughly the same time, but it isn't impossible. try and flag it down, follow, or scream. it might react more than you think. ]