From one foot to another, the bird hopped on the branch. "Birds can't talk," it screeched. "Birds can't talk."
The implication was clear. "Since you can talk, you're not a bird." The gun was still leveled. "Then what are you?"
"I could tell," said the bird. It had stopped hopping and was watching him calmly. It was red, but sometimes blue. The colors wouldn't remain fixed.
He lowered the gun in defeat. He couldn't kill a harmless creature just for the sake of killing. It hadn't been responsible for this.
"Don't be so sure, Richel Alsint. Don't be so sure." The bird burst into a wild trilling song.
He glared at it speechlessly. Bird it wasn't. Either it could read his thoughts or it had been taught a patter that fitted his present situation with remarkable precision.
"What do you think?" said the bird, cocking its head.
He forgot about the bird. It was only a momentary diversion. "I've been marooned," he said dully.
"It's happened before. It will happen again," chirruped the bird. "Don't worry, I'm here."
It was, but he wished it would go away.