"Rara Avis," she succinctly said As she filled small pockets in my head "I hate that rock and you do too" She spat whilst staring at the moon Tumbling from my sleeping den I gestured to my peeping hen "How now do you wish to start? In twain shall love betwixt us part?" "Rara Avis," she grew flush Against the chains my anger thrust I soon grew weary of my struggle Slumping into angst and rubble