Bitter Better Bird

Terence catches up with Saint Roley, not far down the beach.

A better bird, mutters Saint Roley.

Where? asks Terence. Is it that one?

He points to a ruddy bird, which is some distance away, turning stones.

No bird is better than any other, says Saint Roley.

Wrong! says Terence. A dead one isn't better.

True, says Saint Roley. I shouldn't only think of myself. I'm just smarting from what Gaius said.

He can't make you be my parrot, says Terence. What if I ask you nicely?

Ask me nicely, says Saint Roley.

Will you be my parrot until I find a better one? asks Terence.

That's the same question, says Saint Roley. I object to the word better.

How about bitter? asks Terence.

I am, says Saint Roley. It seems no one has noticed my attempts at self improvement.

Or butter? asks Terence.

Tss! says Saint Roley. Let us proceed and find out if that bird is a better one.

They approach the bird, a stocky wader with orange-red legs.

Hello, says Saint Roley. It's a fine day for turning rocks over. 

Any day is a fine day for turning rocks over, says the wader.

Can I do it? asks Terence.

No, says the wader. Not unless you like eating larval flies and midges.

I like finding them, says Terence.

Let him do it, says Saint Roley.

Who are you? asks the wader. And who is he?

I am Saint Roley, says Saint Roley, and this is Terence. He is seeking a better bird, to be his new parrot.

There are no better birds, says the wader.

That's what I say, says Saint Roley. And therefore any bird that was willing would suit the position.

I am not willing, says the bird. I don't even live here. I'm from the far northern regions.

There you are, Terence, says Saint Roley. This bird is no better.

But Terence isn't listening. He is turning rocks over, exposing hundreds of midges, which are flying away.