Before you could give in to an impetuous desire to find the fastest path straight out of the woods, the most impatient sounding clatter of a beak stopped you from turning about and doing just that. Feathers bristled and a black eye swirling with the reflection of the feather’s vibrating glow rooted you in place.
A raven, just as shiny as the feather, peered down at you. The stolen feather was no longer tangled with ribbon in the tree’s branches. You could see it stitched back into all his other glossy feathers upon his breast, vibrating little shivers of violet and pink. Blacker than the rest of the bird, giving you the oddest feeling that it wasn’t this fellow’s feather.
He’d merely stolen it from the tree.