I’m not running; I’m just dramatically strolling.

The brush-turkey strutted across the grass like it owned the place. Its crimson head and yellow wattle seemed almost regal against its otherwise somber plumage. I watched as it paused to scratch at the ground, a methodical movement that hinted at some secret purpose. The bird’s presence was unbothered by my quiet observation. It felt oddly dignified for a creature so often overlooked. Behind it, the green expanse of grass shimmered slightly under the warm afternoon light, a subtle reminder that even the mundane can hold an unexpected beauty.