"Six-seven," Hawk replied, as he approached the wood pile that Numair was sitting on, donning a pair of work gloves. Numair echoed that quietly, writing something down. "An' my wingspan's about twice that."
"So a ratio of two-to-one, I see," Numair murmured. Then, as Hawk bent to pick up one of the pieces of lumber, a sharp little noise made Numair glance up. Hawk didn't seem to notice, pulling a fence post up easily onto one shoulder.
"I been, uh, thinkin' about that, though," he said. "Maybe that proportion ain't right for what we're doin' here?"
Numair gave him a questioning look, though with the fence post braced on his shoulder, half of his face was obscured. A small round white object suddenly fell against the fence post, ricocheting off with the same sharp little report, but Hawk still didn't react to it. He continued, sounding strangely nervous, "Wull, uh, I ain't made for flyin' nonstop, right? M...maybe we oughta model this on an albatross or somethin'?"
Another tiny object smacked loudly against the wood at Numair's elbow. He looked at the spot where it had landed, eyebrows raised, and then at Hawk. "What is an albatross?"
Another couple of round objects hit the wood next to Numair. Hawk had returned to the hole he'd just dug, which the black-and-white hen had now stuck her entire head into. Without glancing back at Numair, Hawk replied, "Oh, uh, it's a big seabird. Real long, narrow wings. They can fly for thousands of miles without landin'."
Numair paused, somewhat distracted by the falling objects. "And that's to do with wing shape?"
"Partly, yeah," Hawk said, and added, "git!" as he gently pushed a very offended hen away from the hole with his foot. He then let the end of the fencepost fall into the hole with a loud thunk.
"...Remind me," Numair said, after a moment, "what is the word for ice falling from the sky?"
Hawk finally turned around to look at him, puzzled. "Hail?" he suggested.