“Do you believe in magic?” one flamingo asked the other.

“What kind of magic?”  The flamino peered out from one wing.

“There’s kinds of magic?” the first flamingo asked.

“Of course!”  The second flamingo preened, pink feathers fluttering.  ”There’s several kinds of magic.”

“Like what?”  The first flamingo challenged.

“Like the magic of a child’s laugh,” the second flamingo began.  ”Or the magic in a kiss.  Or the magic in your mother’s spaghetti, just the way you like it for thirty years.”

“Do flamingoes live to be thirty?” the first flamingo pondered.

“There’s the magic in sunlight dappling through the leaves,” the second flamingo continued, getting warmed up.  ”There’s the magic of a perfume long forgotten of a girl you used to know once.  There’s the magic of the first dance and the magic of the last dance.  There’s the magic of summer nights and of cool winter mornings, right when the sun rises and everything is crisp and neat, scrubbed by ice and dew.”

The first flamingo narrowed tiny black eyes.  ”But what about us?” he asked.

“What about us?”  The second flamingo stopped preening, confused.

“What magic do we have?”  The first flamingo drooped.

“Why, the best magic of all, of course!”  The first flamingo threw back his wings, puffing out his magenta chest.  ”Flamingo magic!”

“What is flamingo magic?”  The first flamenco asked, suspicious.

“If you have to ask, then you’ll never know.”  The second flamingo eyed him scornfully.

“But that’s not fair!” the first flamingo whined.  ”Tell me!”

“Nope.”  The second flamingo shook his head.

“Tell me!”

“I can’t.  Flamingo rules.”  The second flamingo raised one leg.

“TELL ME!”

Only a flamingo knew another flamingo could bellow so loud.  ”Fine,” huffed the second flamingo.  ”But you have to promise not to tell any other flamingoes.”

“I promise.”  The first flamingo squawked, unable to contain his glee.  ”What is it?”

“It’s…”  The second flamingo bent over, his long craning out as he whispered the secret.

“Oh.”  The first flamingo nodded.  ”Wow.  So that’s why we’re pink?”

“Of course.”  The second flamingo snorted.  ”Only the most magical creatures are pink.  Why do you think there are so few?”

“True,” the first flamingo agreed.  Suddenly, he nearly fell over on one leg.  ”You don’t think pigs are more magical than us?”

“Of course not,” the second flamingo replied loftily.  ”They eat garbage and stand on four legs.”

The first flamingo was quiet for a bit.  ”What do I do now?” he asked.  ”Now that I know this secret?”

“You do what flamingoes do best,” the second flamingo answered.  He fluttered his wings, raising a foot.  The first bird lowered one foot and raised the other, wobbling on one spindly leg.

“And what’s that?” the flamingo asked, nearly gobbling over.

“Being pink and admired,” the second flamingo replied, raising his head toward the sun.  The first bird followed suit, basking in the warmth.

At least now, he was part of the magic.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a delicious ode tomorrow!  Stay tuned!

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