Vulture

"Girls are skirts, perfume, braids, lacquered bangs, ponytails on the back of their heads, long eyelashes with curled ends and arrows above the eyes, pointing to the temples, and strollers with affectionate names, and nails narrow, like Lord's, and they come from our ribs, but the voices are much, much more tender..." dvk.

Snow was falling in flakes, covering the ground, blanketing the bald trees surrounding the House with a white shroud. The cloudy sky was darkening, but the teenagers were reluctant to leave. The gray building was lit up with the lights of its rooms. Laughter and shouts of joy could be heard. The strollers stood wet, used as shelter from the snow. They threw snowballs at random, at anyone passing by. The passerby, in turn, was expected to respond in kind.
An old bird passed by, watching silently. The cane no longer tapped the ground, nor the concrete stairs of the House—everything was covered in snow. Wet tracks from wheels and shoes were visible in the hallway. Snow settled on the black cloak. It became so mottled that it resembled a starry summer sky—the stars then melted, leaving only wet spots, which were immediately covered by other flakes.

At one point, the Vulture staggered near the tree and suddenly fell to the ground. The key-earrings on his ears twitched. Snow was thrown at him. His face distorted with disgust. Shadow behind him made the same grimace. His leg hurt. Not much. Like a sharp cut from a knife.

A girl, covered in snow, sat before the bird. A smile. A stroller, wet from playing, stood nearby. She waited for a response. The vulture frowned; he loved obedience. The leader of the birds had never understood the gentle creatures he could now see every day, but the Blind Man had given him a New Law—he respected the latter, so he accepted it with good nature, the unnecessary parts of which he had scraped together in his jungle.

"Girls are skirts, perfume, braids, lacquered bangs, ponytails on the back of their heads, long eyelashes with curled ends and arrows above the eyes, pointing to the temples, and strollers with affectionate names, and nails narrow, like Lord's, and they come from our ribs, but the voices are much, much more tender..." dvk.

Snow was falling in flakes, covering the ground, blanketing the bald trees surrounding the House with a white shroud. The cloudy sky was darkening, but the teenagers were reluctant to leave. The gray building was lit up with the lights of its rooms. Laughter and shouts of joy could be heard. The strollers stood wet, used as shelter from the snow. They threw snowballs at random, at anyone passing by. The passerby, in turn, was expected to respond in kind.
An old bird passed by, watching silently. The cane no longer tapped the ground, nor the concrete stairs of the House—everything was covered in snow. Wet tracks from wheels and shoes were visible in the hallway. Snow settled on the black cloak. It became so mottled that it resembled a starry summer sky—the stars then melted, leaving only wet spots, which were immediately covered by other flakes.

At one point, the Vulture staggered near the tree and suddenly fell to the ground. The key-earrings on his ears twitched. Snow was thrown at him. His face distorted with disgust. Shadow behind him made the same grimace. His leg hurt. Not much. Like a sharp cut from a knife.

A girl, covered in snow, sat before the bird. A smile. A stroller, wet from playing, stood nearby. She waited for a response. The vulture frowned; he loved obedience. The leader of the birds had never understood the gentle creatures he could now see every day, but the Blind Man had given him a New Law—he respected the latter, so he accepted it with good nature, the unnecessary parts of which he had scraped together in his jungle.