The sky had gone golden by the time the radio signal finally gave out; Hawk flew amongst and above citadels of purple clouds with a trail of static following him. The air was still warm, and he was able to glide at the forefront of a thunderhead building at his back.

The black stoat in his bag wriggled its head free and blinked its headlamp eyes. It glanced up at Hawk, who didn't notice the movement--he seemed half-asleep on the wing. The stoat sighed and made itself comfortable, resting one short forearm on the edge of the bag in a very human way.

Somberly it looked out over the ocean, which but for the static of the radio and the wind in Hawk's feathers was utterly silent. Thunderheads were multiplying so nearby in the north it was as though Hawk spread them himself and brought them with him in his flight. The setting sun played over each facet of the clouds, illuminating them orange.

"Lord," the stoat said quietly to itself, "what a sight."