are for pussies, the raven chooses to drink from the puddle.
A little mud is good for the digestion. Lingering hints
of gas and exhaust cause a bit of aftertaste, but make his feathers
ripple with rainbow undertones. Taking his time in the middle
of the intersection, he gurgles as the cars stack up. A four-way
stop and none of the five-tonne monsters has the balls to challenge him.
He looks around, caws in triumph before taking another sip.
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