Three Sentence Ficathon

It was awful, this slipping through time business, made his feathers stand on end and gave him vertigo even though he'd been an expert dive-bomber since he was three months old, and of course the time vortex had dropped on him right before he'd dipped his beak into that juicy roadkill deer, which was no longer dead and hadn't even been born yet. He was hungry, and there weren't any telephone poles or high-rises to land on or any electric lights to navigate by, and the menacingly large local unkindness spoke in an archaic variant that was only used for ceremonial cawings, and was, in fact, unkind.

He was getting back home, he vowed grimly, and after that, nevermore.