A low roll of thunder rose up from the south just then, startling Hawk. He glanced to see thunderheads piled up above the scrub and highway, already full with lightning. He rolled his eyes--it was that time of day.
"Beautiful," he muttered, rolling the map back up. He unfurled his wings partway, stretching. They were a mottled grey with cream on the inside, each as long as he was tall. He fanned the second, smaller wings that were attached under each; they were nothing more than long, barred grey-and-white tailfeathers anchored in muscle.
The radio droned its high singing tone in the background as he climbed up onto the edge of the overpass. Almost gracefully, he sprang off the overpass, wings beating, climbing into the storm-heavy sky.