Cackle dropped a smooth grey pebble onto the grassy hill. Then another, then another. She stacked them into a low, lopsided wall.
She tilted her head and tapped the topmost stone with her beak. A sharp, bright cluck echoed out. The wind lifted the loose tip of her tail-feather.
The bundle of short, dry twigs sat waiting in the grass beside her. Cackle threaded the twigs over the pebble wall, in and out, until the structure stood two feet tall.
She tucks wisps of pale, downy feather into every gap. She backs up and sniffs the dry, splintery twig-scent, letting out a long, rolling cackle.
A pebble slides loose — plip. She replaces it. It slides again — plip. She replaces it again, slower this time, her beak pressing it firm.
The sky bruises purple, the wind roars through the meadow, and Cackle's twig walls fold flat with a sharp crackle. Every wisp of pale feather lifts into one big, swirling, grey-white cloud.
She stands in the gust, a single broken twig still wedged between her beak and the rushing wind. The cloud wobbles, then slowly drifts back down around her feet.
Cackle bends, gathers the scattered pebbles one by one, re-stacks the wall, re-weaves the twigs, and tucks each feather back into its gap, slower than before.
The last twig slots home with a tiny, satisfying click. She presses her beak flat against the finished wall and holds it there for a long, still moment.
Cackle waddles inside the round, pebble-walled space, turns once, and tucks her head under her wing with a soft, low cluck. Her eyes close; the house holds her steady.
