Thunder Far Away prefers the night. Day is too bright for his taste; he spends most of his days drowsing beneath reeds or roots, protected by the gentle feathers of shadow, cool and comforting. When the stars come out, so does he. Tonight he is in an odd mood. When he finds a patch of glowing mushrooms, he noses playfully at them, then lies down beside them. "Shall I tell you a tale?" he asks the fungi. "I will tell you the tale of the crocodile and the clever bird. This is a thing that happened perhaps many seasons ago, or perhaps yesterday."
Thunder pauses, tilting his head as though listening to the mushrooms. "Yes. Yes, I'm getting to that. There was a fine bird, a bird with the bluest of blue feathers, a bird with the blackest of black eyes. This bird was a proud bird, proud and clever. He found the best berries and the best insects and the best nesting grass. He outsmarted the claws of the hawk and the jaws of the wild dog. But one day, bad luck caught the clever bird, for none can outrun luck's long reach."
