He scratches his nose, then bows to the overhead blue with all the gold bits in.
“Well, it turns out that everything is the Now, after all… but yeah, carrot seeds! Three does sound about porridge, Old Girl. But you’re right,” he adds blithely, slapping his thigh as his trousers begin to grow tight and the joints of his legs wither up into hard ball-knobs,”…I should go and check on the kids, shouldn’t I? Well I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”
Black wings bunch through his coat in a respectable flurry; the tweed disappears.
And his hair grows into a straw hat.
And his body is a bird’s.
He lifts his big crow leg, careful not to get his long beak caught under his knee.
“With my nice stout boots, I ought to make his dream in no time flat, my girl!” he caws, out a giant silvery crow-mouth with seed-temptingly large nasal cavities.
Then he is tromping away, across the grass.
In the distance, suddenly there is a flowing field of gold; his destination.
He heads himself in that direction, going there, in the grand grand leaping steps of a very big boy.
Or a giant talking crow with a bowtie.
Wearing boots, and a good straw hat.