☔︎ no soggy birds allowed
Send ☔︎ for my muse’s reaction to yours holding their umbrella over them.
The rain isn’t as cold as the wind that blows in off the coast, carrying the lingering chills of winter that refused to loosen their grasp in the early season. It crawls up the young owl’s cloak no matter how tightly he draws the tattered thing around himself -- when wet, the feathery material is not much of a shield and instead clings to him. It makes him look quite melted and pitiful.
Which is why, Otus supposes, it is such a relief to feel the rain finally stop. By nature, he immediately shakes himself off; freeing some of his down of the wet and letting his hair poof up in its usual unruly shape.
Then a grimace tugs at his lips and he ducks his head, realising the clumsiness of the action.
A stranger was standing beside him, holding between them a bright-looking umbrella to ward off the storm.