The Anger of the Birds

It was night. My red feathers were caught in a frizzle as I was preparing for the morning sun to rise and my song to reach the ears of the world that watches over us from dusk 'til dawn. There was something wrong.

I had  seen pig tracks before in my time, in the wilderness, never in our home, never near the coop. I knew something was wrong. And I saw the hens trying to fly, screaming for help. They were gone, our future. The pigs had taken our eggs.

Birds were crying, longing for their eggs, for their heirs. It had to be the pigs. Their foul stench was still misting our lungs, sinking in our wings. They were pecking at the floor as if trying to dig out some hope, dig out a savior. A yellow bird had seen the swines, he had tried to save them, but he was late, too late. They were gone with our eggs. I hate pigs.

The nest was empty. My beak went numb. I was deep fried in anger. I was an angry bird now, and I knew ... I knew I'd have to give my life to save them, I was going to, we were going to. I am going to. Nothing can stop us now.

This is war.

—Red Bird.

okbye!