Rookpunk.

Rookpunk, five minute exercise. From this Manateepunk which I really enjoyed reading.

Thirty fifths missing and breezeshot like a lost feather. He dropped from the sky followed by a gaggle of ragged brothers and sisters. Stormgone, split up and unable to form a full parlaiment he was less than he should be. The group mind split was no longer strong and shiny-eyes. They needed to reform but small numbers meant small thoughts. No ideas here.

Quick beaks, stealing the power from the land. Each peck a packet of energy left as offerings by groundbounders for the freepeople. A welcome gift to his crop. Soon his muscles would sing again and he could throw himself into the wind. They needed to move, the two legs totem, a hideous thing of rags and straw, flapped disquiet. Calling the groundbounders to take their sacrifice. He couldn't lose more of his people, of himself. Already they were weak thinking. 

'Too long. Been here too long,' he called and they jumped for the air. Stretching up for a good current when the sacrifice was taken. A ripping of air. A pan in his wing. A death beside him and the land, the land jumping into his element to catch him, break him on the hard cold earth.