David Attenborough carefully stepped through the underbrush, his practiced feet scarcely disturbing the leaf litter. He descended into the wetland valley, expertly tracking a firm path. The naturalist skirted a pond and crouched behind a large dogwood, peering between the still-red twigs at a decomposing log.
His light, excited voice was barely audible. "Here, concealed within this log, is a rather curious creature. Currently, he is taking the form of a hawk. Not a falcon, not a crow, but a black hawk." He paused, and then breathed, "You'll not find another like him in the world."
Ka-chick! Sir Attenborough impatiently flapped his arms to wave the Lyre Bird away, before it started to mimic a car alarm. The camera man and the audio man on the other side of the clearing stifled snickers into their elbows.
He continued unflappably, "This bird is unlike any other bird…because he is not a bird." A fox yipped and stood guard next to the log. "He is really a man named Numair Salmalin."
At that moment, a young woman entered the clearing, and Sir Attenborough and his media crew ducked out of sight. "Thank you," the girl said to the fox, before peering into the rotted cavity. "Clever lad, to think of hiding in there. Come on out--they're gone." The bird Numair Salmalin hobbled into her arms. The girl spoke quietly to him while she efficiently set a splint to his broken wing and then carefully went back the way she came.
Sir Attenborough carefully stood back up.
"Who was he hiding from then?" his camera man called from across the clearing.
Suddenly a ghastly stench tore through the air. The audio man threw up and the camera man dropped his camera as three steel man-birds crested the trees. A female with an arrow in one eye, shrieked and dove. All three men screamed, but the audio man used his boom microphone to bash the beast in the face. Forgetting their expensive equipment on the swamp floor, they ran all the way back to Scotland.