Dicky Mint looked up from the muck where he’d landed to see a large, glassy eye staring back at him. A great, blue, gangly, feathered abomination stood before him.
And then it spoke, “Hello,” in a cheery voice.
Disoriented but curious Dicky asked, “What in the world are you?”
“I’m an Icelandic Flamingo; My name is Stjork.” It seemed to smile proudly around its beak, though Dicky wasn’t sure how that was possible.
Shaking his head he muttered, “I didn’t think they had flamingo in Iceland.”
“I wouldn’t know,” shrugged the bird, who did indeed look like a blue flamingo, “I’ve never been there.”
Dicky sat up in the muck, “Then how do you know your Icelandic?”
Stjork paused, blinked, blinked again, “I don’t know.” He weaved his bulbous head around on a long neck and continued to blink, honestly befuddled by the question.
“And how can you talk?” Dicky Mint had to ask.
Again Stjork stared, blinked, blinked again, “With my beak?”
Dicky was quickly realizing that talking and communicating are two different things.