Time moves very slowly for the Mannabird. She gazes with a strange yearning at the slow-moving clouds, tiny puffs of wintery chill issuing from her mouth. To say that her feathers are ruffled would be an understatement - one can tell from the way her collar twists by the nape of her neck, or how the hem of her jacket is tucked behind her wrist, hand thrust into her pocket.
The Mannabird no longer displays her flashy single feathers. She has chosen herself a mate - and the mature, office-lounging persona suits her plumage just fine. The Mannabird is content with her nest and her pack - but something is not sitting right with her.
Perhaps it is the climate.
Her habitat is failing on her. Pieces of her domicile are wearing thin, and she does not like the way she can see through some of the threadbare parts.
So the Mannabird casts her eyes to the sky. Where would be suitable for her pack? For her and her mate? Where can she spread her feathers, show off her new plumage and be appreciated for the last of her kind?
She casts her eyes to the North, a land of mountains and snow, a land of collegic endeavors, a land where stories had taken first root in her mind, and she smiles. She snorts one last plume of the chill night air, and heads back inside, coat flapping behind her like tailfeathers.
The MannaBird is going back to Massachusetts.