I thought this was a story I could tell as it comes.

Eventually it leaves, because a fox can never catch a bird without trickery, and this fox is too new to attempt anything clever. Incensed, you flit to the highest branch, but youРІР‚в„ўre too proud to fly away. The fox lunges, russet length a hunterРІР‚в„ўs snapping trap. When you feel yourself get hot, you need to-РІР‚Сњ РІР‚СљI donРІР‚в„ўt want to be a fox,РІР‚Сњ says the fox. РІР‚СљBut you have to let go of that, I think.РІР‚Сњ And now youРІР‚в„ўre an invader.РІР‚Сњ You nod and hop-hop-hop around the branch-closer, and then away, because the fox still looks hungry. РІР‚СљItРІР‚в„ўs okay,РІР‚Сњ you say, your tweets gold and sparkling. The fox nods, swaying a bit-it can be hard to get used to the equilibrium of a new body, the semi-circular canals in the wrong places. You wondered, not for the first time, if you would ever stop being a bird.) (It was hard to remember what countries were. It reminds you of meeting someone thatРІР‚в„ўs only recently arrived in your country. РІР‚СљI am finding this a bit disorienting.РІР‚Сњ Their voice is-not muffled, exactly. You think itРІР‚в„ўs more likely these people were foxes all along, and finding the right body only gave them the excuse. There are stories of people going completely native, unable to control themselves, but you think these stories are inaccurate. РІР‚СљHello,РІР‚Сњ you tweet, only just out of reach. (And thinking of it now, you ache-because it was early, yet, and you could still be surprised.) You flit down, closer, because you can see the spark of the seed-this fox is like you, human and not human. How visible you make yourself, how loud your song! Who cares if there is a fox under you, staring up hungrily? You are the invincible bird, king of-Р”В«ut oh, that is not just a fox. You descend branches until youРІР‚в„ўre a few above the lowest. РІР‚СљGet off that branch!РІР‚Сњ I whistle a sharp warning through my beak, but you are playful, and you are daring, and you are the fastest finch in this tree or any other. Here is a story about us, from before I was you: We like best the animals that make us feel most ourselves.Р”Р„s for me, I only feel right when IРІР‚в„ўm some kind of bird. You in a magpie isnРІР‚в„ўt you in a dragonfly or a trout or a spotted dalmatian. After a few jumps, you considered your options carefully. Once you got the seed in you, the clock started. Sometimes it was soil, or water, or concrete-but often, it was flesh. We didnРІР‚в„ўt know that yet-the sky had only just split open, the almost-microscopic seeds floating down on thorn-tipped maple wings to drill their way into whatever they landed on. Their hearts beat so fast, the seeds burn them out. And every day after, I woke up and flew to a shiny window, just to admire my plumage.Р”В«irds donРІР‚в„ўt last. Series: The Tales of Gorlen VizenfirtheР”Р„ magpie, although IРІР‚в„ўve since been a jay and a red-tailed hawk and even a big, black crow, crying tok-tok-tok at every passerby.Р”В«ut the magpie was special: on my first day, I saw those flashing blue wingtips, and I was myself.

Series: From the Lost TravelersРІР‚в„ў Tour Guide.

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