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"We're rather similar, you and I," Maglor remarked to a flamingo shuffling its feet several yards away. At this point, the birds were used to him and paid little attention as long as he didn't approach them straight on. Growly, squeaky honking punctuated the splashing sounds of water in and out of dozens of beaks. "Of course, I sing much prettier. Though I'm sure you'd disagree with me. You don't want quendi crooning when it comes time to find a mate, you want the most impressive honking, or— whatever."
The old elf was himself wading through the silty low-tide estuary in search of a meal, basket rake in hand and tunic tied up to his waist to avoid the worst of the mud splattering his lower half. He didn't much care about modesty; and besides, he and the flamingos were completely alone together. There were no nearby elvish or casari settlements, and a human would find this cove difficult to access. But Maglor had spent centuries and millennia avoiding large groups of people, and so he had spent centuries and millennia finding places where large groups of people did not or could not live and making himself at home there.