Its eloquent beak staccato pecks the clouded glass passenger window of the vehicle. Tapping until it can’t no more, the orchard oriole finds itself in one hell of a situation; Trapped inside the temperature rising fuselage, its desperation slowly builds. Palpably. It attempts the window behind, across the way, nothing but the piercing vibration reverberates back. The front seat window seems to be the same.

Increase of the heartbeat. It perches on the rubbered steering wheel, stilted on its papery legs. The board of gauges, meters, numbers, dials, widgets, gears, levers is but a backdrop. An aesthetic upon this contraption of containment. Nothing of use.

Its head tilts and leans in what looks like curiosity and fascination, on the contrary, just habitus. 

The oriole has a visible change in demeanor. The once burnt orange and black is now becoming a sad pink and grey. Feathers wilt, eyes shrivel, tongues dry, skin crackles; it shrivels into a sad state. Its frail body was not meant for such faculties, such as the ones of heat, robustness, or vile ghouls filled with truly grotesque thoughts and body. Perhaps one day the oriole can be proven to be adequate enough for a Hyundai Sonata.