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infinite monkeys with infinite trackers and infinite quantities of hallucinogens in an infinitely large dark room. Like Shakespeare, only better.

There was once an aged bird, or, more specifically, an entire species of bird. In summer, they fished upon the ragged rocks far from the shore, and watched the cellophane waves break and the dripping-patent-leather sealions dance.
Autumn brought the bigger creatures out of the shadows, feasting upon the unready birds. And they waited, afraid, for the shaded ones to leave. They did not, and their land was unwelcoming.
When winter came, and food was scarce, and the blinding sunshine did not warm their backs, they went north, away from the shade. to warmer climes, with not-bears and mythical hoopsnakes and men with too many grins and too few teeth. It was here that they whiled away the days-weeks-months of the cold, watching with the infant curiosity of short-memoried animals as the circus of nature fell apart at the feet of their trees.
They waited for the spring, but it was not a certain coming.