rivercrow

Lorida crossed the Morid and drug herself wearily onto the opposite shore. Near the center of the river the current had picked up and pushed her further downstream. She didn’t mind. The riverbank where she stopped was pebbly and clear of reeds. Visibility was good. No cover for predators.

She sprawled on the hot stones and rested.

A distant squawk caught her attention and she peered upwards at the source. High above her, she saw a flight of her kind in a loose arrow formation. Their broad webbed wings beat in unison and light reflected off the yellow and grey surfaces. The older ones stayed at the leading edges; the younger ones were in the middle. If there was a groundborn amongst them, which was unlikely, its parents and capable immediate family members would take turns carrying the child until the burden was too great. She watched as the flock passed her. The younglings were tired; their legs dangled loosely, which increased drag, and slowed the group. Even so, they were faster than she was. She watched them until their pale silver underbodies blended with the sky.

She peered back at her right shoulder and sighed. Instead of wings, she had stubs. The upper wing, lower wing, and four eight-inch slender fingers on each side. She didn’t have the long, sturdy fingers joined with webbing that would allow her flight. No, just the pair of arms at her shoulders ending in fingers.

When she’d hatched, her family had been dismayed. She knew it; she’d been present at a couple other hatchings of groundborns. No matter how relatives tried to hide their disappointment, it was there. Groundborns meant slow migrations, increased risk, concerns for bloodlines, worries about matings. Tribal elders tracked groundborns closely.

The limbs weren’t useless. She could grasp objects with her fingers. Wings couldn’t do that. Lorida wiggled her fingers now, relishing the movement. Very few of the groundborn lacked usable fingers. She’d heard arguments that the groundborn should be better protected, that their odd limbs might be valuable. The debates didn’t matter much. What mattered was following the food sources and weather on the biannual migrations and expanding tribal and family territories through strategic matings.

She stood up. The sharp talons on all four feet scraped on the rocks of the shore. The heat of the afternoon sun warmed her back, reminding her that she had several hot hours when the heavy, temperature-dependent predators would be hidden in their dens. Lorida started an easy trot downstream along the riverbank.

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