When the gang meets up to discuss snacks.

The currawongs moved with a deliberate grace that seemed almost theatrical. Their yellow eyes glinted with an intelligence that felt both familiar and distant. One tilted its head as if pondering some unspoken question while another pecked at the ground with quiet determination. The interplay between them was subtle yet captivating—an unspoken language of movement and intent. Around them, the forest seemed to hold its breath, as though it too was caught up in their quiet drama. A fallen branch nearby bore the marks of time and weather, its surface rough yet oddly inviting. I couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in this moment—a spectator to a world that thrived on its own terms.